Backstory
by Emmet
Summary: The Grace/Dimitri story arc through August Dimitri's eyes. Angst.
1. The Awful Truth

Title: Backstory

Author: Emmet

Disclaimers: Characters are all from _Once and Again_, created by Edward Zwick and Marshall Herskovitz. Chapter titles and lines of dialogue in this and future chapters are from episodes  by Winnie Holzman, Sue Paige, Daniel Paige, Liberty Godshall, and Maggie Friedman. Thanks for the inspiration.

Rating: PG for now

Summary: Season 3 from August Dimitri's eyes.

Note: I became intrigued with the Mr. Dimitri/Grace story arc, and wondered about Dimitri's take on the experience. No one seems to have written the story I wanted to read, so I thought I'd have a go. Feedback appreciated.

Chapter 1: The Awful Truth

Every teacher secretly hopes for one. That special student, that student that you know has that unique something that will transcend your classroom, about whom you can say I knew them when, like that teacher Matt Damon and Ben Affleck credited when their first screenplay won an Oscar.

Is that what I want, now, just future credit from a former student? My own books forgotten. And the Well Ran Dry. How sad to be emptied at 25, to have your identity revolve around being a poetic genius and then have nothing come. The fallout of altruism.

It's ironic that the path that led to my love of teaching also led to the end of my own writing. Don't look back, Bob said. At 23.

Poems, stories, more poems, used to flow, unbidden – I couldn't write them down fast enough. I, who never believed in writer's block, who took my genius so for granted, the genius that got me through high school, the genius that was appreciated in college, honed, recognized, published, lauded. 

A rare impression of déjà vu the first time I saw her in class, red hair a shade darker than mine, slightly plump, as I was at that age, reserved. But I didn't know then that she would be the special one this year, or that she would significantly change my life. I've been lucky enough to have had a few notable students over a decade of teaching, those who have had a certain perceptiveness, advanced for their years, an ability that they could only have at this transitional stage of life, the certain know-it-all naiveté of late adolescence, combined with rare, intense brightness that allows them to express insights beyond the average high-school junior.

After the first essay, I was again reminded of myself, though I hadn't yet connected the name to the face. I knew from the opening paragraph that Grace Manning might be one of those students we teachers all don't admit that we hope for. 

Maybe I appreciated her more because this was an introspective year for me. I had turned 40 a few weeks before class started. (Yes, my parents named us each for the months in which we were born: August, April, June. At least none of us were born in February.) I was determined not to be a mopey cliché, age is what it is, but in spite of it all, there's something about turning 40 that made me stop and think and review my life – past and future. "What do you expect?" my friend Chris says. "If you're lucky, you've reached the exact middle of your life. And in many places you've already made it through two-thirds of your life. So smile! Take what comes. Enjoy." She was a year older and had already come to terms with the experience.

The class was Literature: Craft and Critique, an honors class. Students didn't have to apply to get in, but they had to understand this was a reading- and writing-heavy class. Read a book per week, daily journal writing, weekly writing assignments, both creative original and literary criticism. I didn't mind teaching my other, more basic courses, but this was my favorite one to teach, both because of the works covered, and because of the students. Only those who were really interested in reading and writing took this class – it had a reputation for being the toughest offered. Because it was.

The first assignment that I gave on day one was an in-class 20-minute essay, and it always elicited a laugh, because these honors students didn't think I was serious. It also gave me a sense of how they responded to any assignment, however frivolous it may seem. "I want you to write an essay, three pages, right now. Theme: 'What I did during my summer vacation.'"

Hesitant laughs at first, then groans, always groans, when they realized I was serious. I smiled, I looked over the classroom. I had taught people of all ages, from elementary to adult ed, but high-school juniors were my favorite --  I could still influence how they thought. They already had the development of a couple years of high school. They had more worthwhile ideas to express than  a freshman, the 17-year-olds did, yet they weren't yet in the senior year gotta-worry-about-college-essays frame of mind.

The groans, then the essays. Which I read that night, with a glass of wine, sitting on a stool in my kitchen, an old Melanie album playing in the living room. Sucker for those crooners. This assignment served three purposes. One, it gave me a sense of their innate, spontaneous writing ability, of what I should be able to expect from these kids this year. Two, obviously, it told me what they did over the summer, and gave me a sense of who each kid was – did they work, did they play, did they laze around, what did they do? And three, it told me what they thought was important about what they did., what they needed to share with the teacher, how they viewed me as their reader. 

I went through the pile of essays. Scrawling, almost illegible handwriting, tiny, cramped, precise letters. Some essays were humorous, some were poignant, some were merely boring. There were camp counselors, life guards, waiters, trips to Europe, hiking, even Disney World. There was a list of all the television programs seen in July, with episode summaries. And then there was an essay that began:

_This summer started with a honeymoon for six, the perfect party during the year my life turned excruciatingly upside down, inside out, twisted, rippled, drained and gone. A perfect life and family ruptured behind the scenes we didn't see, secrets revealed I'd rather never know, but now can never not._

_The minister fixed sinks and built fountains._

_In Hebrew, ring is taba'at._

_The taba'at of my father is buried in a garden, thrown into a well, drowning in an ocean._

_It is no longer connected to him. A piece of worthless precious metal, a whole broken circle._

_A  Musician who shouldn't be a brother, new sister who is Porcelain, old sister who is Much Too Cute in a house that is much too small because there's no more room for me._

_There cannot be a new father, even if there is a new ring._

I couldn't put it down for the three pages, written in blue ballpoint, slanted, legible. I looked at the name, Grace Manning, trying to picture a face. It took me a few days to learn everybody's names. I remembered, suddenly, the redhead, and wondered if she were Grace Manning.

The next day, when I handed back the essays, my hunch proved correct. Grace was indeed the reserved redhead. I saw her shuffle the pages to the end, where I had written, "Remarkable writing." I saw her smile.

But no student is perfect, not even the special ones. After handing back the essays, I discussed my expectations for the class, and handed out the notebooks they would use as journals. I explained, "These are your journals. You all are in this class because, supposedly, you like to write.  Journal writing is essential to your development as a writer -- and reader. You need to be writing every day. As part of your grade, you are expected to keep a daily journal, which I will read, thoroughly."

"But what if we want to say private things?" The inevitable question.

 "You are writing to be read." I paced as I talked, walking among the desks, associating names with faces. "That may include private things. But you know that I will be reading them. If there are more personal thoughts you do not care to share with me, you can keep a personal diary. But _this_ is your writer's journal. Your observations, your thoughts – I want your feelings, your reactions. I want you go to the depths of your feelings. Because it's important as writers for you to connect to that part of you. I do not want to see, 'Today I finished six homework assignments and had a milkshake for snack.' I just want you to observe the world around you and write what you see and feel, every day. Clear?" I looked around the classroom. I got a few nods. I looked at the clock. "We'll start right now. Take five minutes. I'll be reviewing your journals every Friday. Since this is a short week, I'll look at the journals next Friday. For Monday, read _The Dangling Man_ by Saul Bellow and explain the title to me by Wednesday. Now write."

I watched them as they worked. A boy, Tad Lafferty, fiddled with his pen, looked out the window, then hunched down and put pen to paper. Another boy, blond, with wire glasses – Russell Wagner-- kept staring at me, then writing, stare, scribble, stare, words. A brown-haired girl with large eyes, Alexa Yagoda, began writing from the moment I said go and did not lift the pen until the bell rang. Grace shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and seemed to write with distraction.

Wednesday. Grace's Bellow paper was as good as her summer essay. I found myself looking forward to her daily journal. My weekend reading. Invariably, the first week of journal entries from students were lacking, even for those who had been keeping journals before. I was looking for impressions, notes on the world, ideas to use in writing, comments. I saved Grace's journal for last, but began to frown as I read it. Oh, it wasn't bad, per se, but it was removed, chatty, superficial – though she did have an ear for dialogue. Her mother appeared quite a lot, saying, Gracie, I really think you ought to see this show, Gracie can you keep an eye on your sister, Gracie do you want that extra pancake? Gracie? Grace didn't seem to be present in her journal. 

It's funny, what's in a name. The simple addition of a vowel changes the whole sound, from a word evoking elegance to one of humor, endearment, childishness. "Grace" seemed independent, solemn, eloquent; "Gracie" seemed obedient, stifled, cute, trite. Grace Manning needed to break free from that "i" to find herself.

None of the journals were perfect, or close to it. After all, a journal is not a paper or a story, it's the chance to let loose and write badly. It's the letting loose that's important. I was just more disappointed with Grace Manning's because she had demonstrated so much more potential as a writer than anyone else in the class. When I handed the journals back on Monday morning, I noticed Grace suppressing a yawn. "How did you find the journal experience thus far, Miss Manning?" I asked, annoyed.

"Oh, well, I've kept journals before," she said.

Annoyed again that she had missed my point about the class journals. "Oh you have? And?"

"It was fine. It was nice."

_Nice_. Of all people. I expected more from her. _Nice_. One of the more inane words in the English language.

"I'm sorry. I thought you said 'nice.'"

"I did." 

"Oh. Because I don't want to misquote you or anything." Why was she so resistant to this particular assignment? Should I give her break, drop it? But no. I knew she can do better. Her writing was excellent, but there was room for improvement. 

"I said 'nice'!" She asserted herself this time, taking a stand, getting annoyed herself. I liked that she did, that she wasn't being… nice.

But neither was I. "Nice...nice! Let's see, whatever shall I do today?" I approached her desk. "I know! I shall write in my boring old journal. It will be ever so _nice_!" The class laughed, and Grace smiled because she had to, flushing nonetheless. I walked back to my desk. "'Nice' is for shrimp salads and grandmothers. I'm not interested in 'nice.' Now, all of you – next time, I want to see observations – descriptions of people you've never thought about before, conversations overheard, snippets of ideas. These are writer's journals, after all. Fill them with life!"

***

I got to school early the next day. I like getting there before school starts, the usually noisy halls quiet, serene. I was grading my regular English class book reports when Grace entered the room. She put her journal on my desk.

 "Mr. Dimitri?"  she began. "Can I just ask you something?"

I nodded, surprised to see her there that early. But pleased that my comments to her the day before appeared to have made her think.

She took a breath and burst out quickly, "Just because someone's life doesn't seem interesting to you personally --"

I checked the spelling of a word in my Webster's. "You don't think you're interesting?" I asked, turning the conversation away from the one she'd obviously prepared.

"No!" She raised her voice, and I looked up from my papers. "I'm saying you obviously don't think I'm being honest enough --"

"Wait! Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait." I said, interrupting that line of thought. Apparently my nice speech affected her, though not in the right direction. "Honest _enough_? What's 'enough'?"

"I just can't believe --" she started, then stopped.

"What? What can't you believe?" I asked.

"I can't believe that I'm the only person in class who isn't being 'honest.'" Ah, why am I picking on _her_. Because she said "nice"; of course I made similar comments to others, in writing. But she didn't know that. Grace was the one who happened to be held up as an example to the class. Catalyzed by the yawn.

I put the papers I'd finished grading in my desk drawer. I picked up her journal and opened it. "Who calls you 'Gracie'?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"My mother, sometimes… why?"

"Tell me something. Why are you letting her come to class? Why are you letting _her_ write your journal?"

Now she was genuinely confused. "Who? My mother?"

"No," I said. "Gracie. Augie Meyers plays keyboards on the latest Dylan album, and he is amazing, but I am _August_."

She didn't get my point. I was being too esoteric. It's a problem I have, left over from my days as a prodigy. Maybe I had overestimated her? She fell back on, "Well, I just don't think it's fair." Fair is another one of those inane words. What is fair? Is it fair that I once could write beautiful poems and no longer can? Is it fair that my younger sister never could write poetry in the first place? But I wasn't going to go on another semantic tirade.

I just said,  "Fair? Who you love, who you hate, who changes your life, none of it's fair. Why don't you write about _that_?" I tried to clarify, to help her see, remembering a small personal comment she had written in her journal: _What about that situation makes me so nervous? Why can't I…?_ "What would happen if you said what you're most afraid of to the person you're most afraid to say it to? And then write about it. Don't clean it up, don't make it presentable, don't be Gracie. Be in a state of grace. Because that's what Grace means. Grace is about what's sacred, and that's the truth." I handed her her journal and she took it,  reluctantly. She looked at me without saying anything else, though her eyes, brown, registered an understanding, and also… an apprehension.

I was at school early again the next day – we had our weekly staff meeting, and I grabbed a few minutes in the classroom to organize some books. I didn't hear Grace come in, and was startled when I heard her voice behind me. "Mr. Dimitri. I tried it. What you said. You know, about saying what you're most afraid to say to the person you're most afraid to say it to." I turned. Her eyes were lit up this time, and she spoke with excitement. She looked… inspiring. She spoke of being able to write about "the most embarrassing person." Good. That's how I wanted her to think, to stretch herself, to exercise unused literary muscles.

I saw the clock and realized I'd be late. "I must away, fair Grace," I said, bowing with a flourish, in my best faux Will. But at the door I turned, and she looked at me expectantly, then realized I was waiting for her to leave the room – I locked my classroom what I wasn't there. I thought of the reclusive poets, scared but brilliant, the ones that inspired me when I was 17. "You know who I think about a lot?" I said. "Proust. Proust and Emily Dickenson. I mean, they were so scared they never even left their rooms. You don't have to become the bravest person who ever lived." I turned off the lights and we stepped into the hallway. "Just the bravest writer."

She left me, smiling this time, clutching the journal against her chest. I smiled too, and headed down the hall for the staff meeting. She would surprise me, this Grace.

(to be continued…)


	2. The Write Way

Chapter 2: The Write Way

I've read so many student journals over the years, inevitably I get caught up in the lives going on in some of them. The events behind the words. Grace's certainly held my attention. Each week, I didn't know whether to save hers for last, or just jump in and read it first.

_Invisibility. The Recluse wrote, "I'm Nobody, who are you, are you Nobody too?"  Who do I ask that, who asks me? The Third Wheel's refrain, the leitmotif of Silence. Walk into a room, a vacuum is heard, is not heard, which means nothing is there. Does a vacuum cleaner remove the silence, suck up invisibility? The Musician thinks his only hope is the notes, sound, sound, play it louder, play it longer, play it, play it, play me, play with me, be my friend, we'll miss our friend together, but after the missing, is anything left? After the popcorn is thrown, after the remote grabbed, anti-parental ally, the Porcelain reaction, is there anything left to say? Are you, indeed, Nobody too? Sometimes you see me so clearly, other times you join the ranks and look right through me, and all I can do is ask for bread and find the cheese, and be noticed more by my absence._

_When not singing, when not strumming, the Musician really has very little to say. Oh, to be a guitar._

There were other students too – Russell's journal was keeping me intrigued. He lived alone with his father, a research biologist at Northwestern, and was drawing some interesting parallels between biology and poetry. At least his poems were not yet brilliant, although they could be.

It can be extremely difficult to hit your peak before reaching a quarter century, to be heading that way at 16. A young 16, a year ahead and two years behind. And I did not appreciate what I had till I didn't. I'd heard of writer's block, but it wasn't even a block, it just was gone. A vacuum. There was always so much to say, three volumes in five years, _ First Words_ at 20, followed by _dimension_, culminating in _Accidentally on Purpose_. Would I still have had more to say if I hadn't turned down the teaching fellowship at Amherst? The lure of the East, of Making a Difference. Why teach privileged college students to hone their already honed writing skills when I could actually help young high schoolers learning English in remote parts of India?

I thought, this will be fascinating. This ancient culture inspired John, Paul, George, even Ringo -- it will give me still more material upon which to write. Instead it all evaporated. I arrived after traveling 37 hours and I taught and found I had a flair. A calling. Maybe because I could so clearly remember being their age and how it felt to be on the edge, regardless of country. But after knowing my students, and the lives they lived and the hardships they surpassed, writing poems seemed trite, pointless. I had nothing left to say. I taught for my year, impressed by the dedication of people far removed from a St. Paul suburban split-level housing two happily married parents with three well-loved children.

But I was a pale boy with allergies in a country of constant sun and strange pollens. April was living in Chicago and told me of teaching opportunities there. I came back, got my certificate, taught inner city one year, then moved to the comfortable suburbs. Back to the familiar country of built-in garages and manicured lawns. I found I loved teaching English, loved seeing the reactions of students to unfamiliar authors that would become favorites, got caught up in the unique world of high-school academia. Twelve years teaching as I began my fifth decade. Soon I'd have taught more years than I wrote.

***

For the first three weeks, all writing assignments had been personal. Start with what you know, and kids certainly know themselves. For Critique, we had read and commented on two novellas and a collection of poems. Craft was all variations on the theme of Tell Me About Yourselves.

The end of September was time for the first creative writing assignment. The first topic was large, expansive – I was trying to teach the kids how to turn something personal in something larger than themselves, by fictionalizing it. "Think of the most memorable experience in your life," I instructed. "You can write about it in your journals, if you want, if it will help you organize your thoughts. But that's not your assignment. Ponder your moment. Then create a _fictional_ character that has a most memorable experience. It may be the same as yours, fictionalized, it may be entirely different. But think about your own experience and what it is that makes it memorable, and then apply those same feelings to the character and story you create."

Alexa's hand shot up. "Can we just, like, write it as a memoir, you know, our own story?" she asked. Missing my point.

"What part of the phrase 'create a fictional character' did you not understand?" I responded. "No. You've been writing personal, "memoir"-style, if you will, for the past month. It's time to move on. Incidentally -- Yes, Russell?"

"You mentioned something about looking at other work we've written, not assignments?"

I had, the first day of class. Good memory. "Yes – I was just going to say. If you've written other stories, you can hand them in for extra credit. I'm also happy to take a look at them not for grades, just for feedback. You can set up an appointment with me Fridays lunchtime. I'll pass around a sheet."

*****

Friday morning I looked at the sign-up sheet. Four on the list – a lot for this early in the year. I'd have less then 10 minutes with each student for this first meeting. Lisa gave me a story she had written over the summer, her first, she said. Russell was interested in playwriting, wondered if maybe we could do original student productions. He had a 30-page manuscript in the works, which he gave me.

Grace came in next. She paced. "I have a lot of stories," she said.

"A lot?"

"You know I said I kept journals before?"

"Nice ones?" I couldn't help saying. She stopped pacing and gave me a reproachful look. "Sorry."

"That's where I wrote my stories, before, when I was younger. Before we had a computer. Now they're all typed in. But… I don't even know if you're even the right person to ask this. Forget it." She walked to the door.

She obviously was nervous. Exposing your writing is intimidating. Writing when you have the need to write presents an odd dichotomy. You're writing because there are these thoughts that must somehow be said, and you want them to be heard, read, by some of the world. But you also don't want anyone to read what you've written, because it's still your words and guts out there, and judgments are passed quickly, easily, capriciously.

"Grace!" I said. "You're here. Sit." She sat at a desk near the door. "Why do you write?"

She opened her backpack and pulled out a manila envelope. "Okay. I've been writing for, like, ever. Stories, making up stories. But I don't have anyone who can read them, who I feel will give me real feedback, really useful criticism. I know a lot of things I've written aren't anything special. But I brought five stories… I was hoping you could tell me what to do with them."

There was a knock on the door and Alexa poked her head in. "One moment, Alexa. We're almost finished." She shut the door.

"I'd be happy to look at your stories, Grace," I said. "If you're serious about writing, it's always helpful to get outside opinions. Not only from me, but even your friends, family. Leave something you've written lying around sometime. See if you get a reaction."

"I don't know about that," she said. "Nobody else has read them ."

"You may want that to change," I said. "Leave me what you have and I'll go over them during the next couple weeks."

She stood, handed me the envelope. For the first time since entering the room, her eyes met mine, and I saw that same apprehension as when she was anticipating a new direction in her journal writing. "Don't worry," I said. "I'll be gentle."

She smiled tentatively. "Just be honest," she said. "I need to know."

Grace left and Alexa came in. "Mr. Dimitri," she began, standing against my desk. "I haven't really written anything…" She paused, and I wasn't sure if she was done talking, but the moment stretched on.

"You haven't; written anything? So you wanted to discuss what you haven't written?"

"No! I mean, I have some ideas, and want to write stories. If I do, did you say you'd give extra credit for them?"

"I did indeed. Did you want to talk about some of your ideas?"

"No… no, I'm not sure, either. But I will. I have some... I'll give them to you. When I get something done with them. What if you don't know what to write about?"

"If you have a story to tell, that won't be a problem. If you don't, look around you. You may find ideas in unexpected places."

"I'll try that…" She said. "Looking around."

"I look forward to it," I said, kindly, not anticipating I'd see that much. Alexa struck me as a bright girl, a good reader, solid student, but not that creative. She continued standing in front of the desk.

"Was there something else?" I asked.

"Yes… I was wondering, do you know what play you're doing this fall? I mean, aren't auditions and everything going to be soon?"

Ah yes, the fall play. It always seems like the school year's barely begun and then it's time to start preparing for the play. The drama club does two plays a year at Upton Sinclair; I'm in charge first semester, and my colleague Jerry James does the spring. Jerry teaches sophomore English. We started the same year, and clicked right away. We share an appreciation of folk music and Shakespeare, and take turns doing a Shakespeare play every other year.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I was planning on announcing the information Monday. Why?"

"I just wanted to know if I could be stage manager."

Stage manager? Without knowing the play. It was usually a thankless job, but I couldn't guarantee anything. "We'll have to see what the interest is after I post the announcements," I said. I looked at the clock – it was time for my next class. I stood. "Monday afternoon we'll have the first tech meeting, okay?"

"Okay."

*****

 _As You Like It_ was my pick this year. I had my LCC class read it, too, and announced tryouts for the following Monday. I recommended that everyone in the class get involved in the production, behind the scenes or otherwise, to see the connection between words on paper and words enacted. Naturally, several journals discussed the play.

_I love the theatre,_ Alexa wrote. _Creating a play, putting it on, all the excitement. But never on stage, always behind, because behind the scenes is where everything is the most exciting. Where all the actors are interacting with one another as people and as the roles they play, and when you stage manage, you get to see everything about the play, both inside and outside. And you get to work with people what are the directors, who have much more experience, because they are the teachers, and you can learn from them, because they have been doing this for a long time, in college and in the community, so they know a lot about putting together a production. That's what I like doing. Putting together a production. Picking who will play what against who else's who. And Shakespeare is always the best kind of play because we can learn the most from him, since he influenced every other writer who ever lived or wrote a play._

_The play's the thing for Princeton_, Tad wrote. Superficially, Tad seemed an unlikely person for LCC – he kept up a façade of macho ignorance, but he was one of those smart ones who played dumb. While he was not the most perceptive with spontaneous class participation, his papers showed a good grasp of the literature we were reading. _Baseball, clarinet, drama, and all the As. Plus those throwaway kissing scenes. No obligation, part of the scenery, requirement for reality. Shit (sorry Mr. D, not cleaning up at all here, like you said), who wouldn't want to do a play?_

_Shakespeare_, Grace wrote in her journal. _It's been more than a year since Cordelia. And the Death. Started to go right when he saw me read, and I didn't see, because he was always so strong, a little flicker, a stumble couldn't have meant anything. If I act again, now, the Bard again, his favorite, will I be able to do it? Will his spirit inspire me, will I have the conviction to deliver? Will I honor him, or forget him as Rosalind replaces Cordelia? I'm older now. I don't believe in ghosts._

I thought back to Jerry's production of King Lear. Grace had played Cordelia? I vaguely remembered; it was a difficult play to attempt at a high-school level, not one of Jerry's better productions. But just because Shakespeare is a challenge for a teenage cast is not a reason not to do it.

One thing I've learned over the past five years of producing high-school plays is to have realistic expectations. These are high-school students, after all, with mediocre acting talent more often than not. But that doesn't matter. Molly Carpenter, the retiring drama teacher, passed these words of wisdom on to Jerry and me, and I think they helped me. "Keep your expectations low, but your ambitions high," she said. "You'll never be disappointed, and you'll often be surprised." 

I hadn't been involved in theatre, other than as an audience member, since I was in college, where I had numerous opportunities to direct, produce, even act, though I usually chose not to. It's important to know your limitations, and I knew I was not a good actor. I knew how to get good performances from actors, but I could feel myself unable to follow my own advice. I couldn't draw on personal experiences and use them, apply them to whatever role. I couldn't because I didn't want to. Some pain is best left alone.

In choosing to share duties as the drama teacher, I went back to the reasons I had gotten involved in drama in college. There is something intense and , well, fun, about being in a play, an instant community, where we all share this goal of devoting hours and hours, days, weeks of spare time for something that will be over and in the past in one weekend. Not unlike producing a gorgeous wedding cake, I suppose – art that disappears in an afternoon, recalled only by memories and  pictures that can never truly recreate the actual experience.

So, we often chose more complicated plays. Almost any high school can produce a half-decent version of _Our Town_, but you can only experience that play so much. Once, actually, was more than enough for me. Molly warned us about that too. "Nod and smile when the board suggests _Our Town_, then do the plays you want. It won't hurt these kids to act in great plays." So far, no one's been disappointed.

(continued)


	3. Auditions

Chapter 3: Auditions

Monday after school was the first tech meeting. Alexa was there, still the only taker for stage managing. Sarah Grasso, a junior who had been working on costumes, and two sophomore boys interested in lights and sets. Most kids got involved in the nonacting roles after they didn't get a part, but there were those who, like myself, wanted to be behind the scenes.

Alexa proved to be well-organized; by Tuesday morning she had already posted the audition sign-up sheet, and had a typed-up list for me Friday afternoon. Looked like she'd be a good stage manager, one who might actually help – I've worked with some that required way more hand-holding than I really had time for. Although she smoked, though not in front of me. The acrid smell of stale smoke preceded Alexa each time she entered the room. For some reason, cigarettes seemed to be an integral part of the acting world, even in high school. Odd for people who needed their voices.

As we sat in the auditorium going through the script, Alexa asked me how I was going to turn _As You Like It_ into a musical. "Who said it was going to be a musical?" I asked.

"Oh, I know you always end up doing a musical," she said. "At least, that's what you've done the past two years." 

It was true. I did like doing musicals, almost as much as Shakespeare. Which reminded me -- many think _As You Like It _was staged as a musical, because some of the dialogue is so lyrical. I opened my valise for my copy of the script, and saw a pile of song sheets I had stuffed in and forgotten to remove. I pulled them out, considering.

Auditions can be a both a painful and revealing process. Revealing who has thespian aspirations, who has actual talent, and painful because many don't, but want to. As the one behind the scenes, I found the experience oddly exhilarating, experiencing that feeling of anticipation vicariously, without the inevitable parallel of disappointment. And, to be honest, that's another lure of directing. The power of determining who will be who, rather than having hope hinge on other's decisions.

Several student s I didn't know tried out for Rosalind. The afternoon was stretching out. I checked the clock; I was meeting Chris that night for a late dinner. We usually met every week or so, but it had been almost a month. Tonight, she said, she had something "important" to tell me. Probably what I had been avoiding. "Who's next?" I asked Alexa.

"Grace Manning."

A familiar face. I was curious to see how she would do. I grabbed a script and stood. "I know her," I said. I also knew she'd probably have read the play oh, once or twice, and likely memorized Rosalind's concluding soliloquy. So I thought I'd test her with something in the middle of the play. I jumped on the stage and handed her a copy of the script, and recited Silvius's line, "'My errand is to you, fair youth. My gentle Phoebe did bid me give you this." I pointed to the middle of the page and added, "Act. IV, scene III. Pardon me. I am but as a guiltless messenger."

Grace didn't miss a beat. "Patience herself would startle at this letter," She began. I moved back and watched her as she fell into the role, reading the lines with the annoyance they required, smoothly, easily.

"And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear all:  
She says I am not fair, that I lack manners;  
She calls me proud, and that she could not love me,  
Were man as rare as phoenix. 'Od's my will!  
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt:  
Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well,  
This is a letter of your own device."  
  


I had found my Rosalind. And I knew what I wanted to do with the play musically as well. "Okay," I said, cutting her off. She stepped off the stage. "Many of you probably know I like musicals. So I thought –"

"There's one more audition," Alexa interrupted. "For Phoebe. Jessie Sammler"

A slight girl walked timidly on stage. I looked at the clock again. I was doing okay for time. I handed the script to Jessie and pointed to the latter part of a speech in Act III. She began hesitantly, stumbling over a couple words, but her voice grew stronger, wistful, ironic as she read.

"I have more cause to hate him than to love him:  
For what had he to do to chide at me?  
He said mine eyes were black and my hair black:  
And, now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me:  
I marvel why I answer'd not again:  
But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.  
I'll write to him a very taunting letter,  
And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius?"  
  


While she read, a group of kids behind me began whispering. Including Grace. I turned, annoyed, and Grace stopped. Sammler, I recognized the name suddenly – that was the name of Grace's step-father. So this Jessie – she must be Porcelain, who Grace wrote about. And she was good too, perfect for Phoebe, really, but I thought I'd include her in the callbacks for Rosalind, since I liked to have at least three names for a callback. That would probably bother Grace, I realized. I found myself wondering with an odd anticipation exactly how she would react.

"Thank you," I said, as Jessie finished reading. She started to walk off stage. "Wait, Miss Sammler – stay right there. Now. About the music. I am going to add folk music to the play. Yep. The music of weird old America." I looked around. "How great is that?" The students looked confused, not sure what to make of this development.

"No one told us we'd have to _sing_," complained a boy.

"I know," I said. Considering I didn't know it myself until 10 minutes ago.

Grace asked, "Do you want us to sing, like, today?"

Why not? I looked at the clock again. I still had two hours – shouldn't be a problem. I began passing out the song sheets. "We'll work backwards in order of the auditions," I said. "Which means, Miss Sammler," I turned to where Jessie was on stage still, "You can go first." I handed her the sheets.

"You want me to sing," she asked nervously. "I don't think I know any of these."

"Then sing anything."

She looked at the songs again and said, "Oh, I kind of know this one from camp." And she began to sing. Clear, sweet, strong, much stronger than her acting voice. All whispering in the auditorium ceased. My God. I didn't want to breath Wow. Usually I poker face during audition, but not this time. "I love it!" I exclaimed.

I heard someone say, "Mr. Dimitri," jarring the mood. I turned, still reveling in that voice. It was Cynthia, who I had pegged as a secondary role, maybe an understudy for Rosalind. "I have to say I think this is totally unfair that we have to do this like this?"

I don't blame her. The proverbial hard act to follow. "How would you like to do it?"

Grace answered for her. "We should be given time to practice. It's unreasonable for you to assume that everyone is comfortable just singing just like that."

"You seem to feel pretty strongly about this, Miss Manning." Up in arms with a verbose argument.

"We all do," Grace said, looking around. There were nods. And it was getting late. There were a lot of auditions to go through.

"Fair enough," I said. "I'm not a complete sadist. Yet. Okay. Those of you who get called back should be prepared to sing one of these songs. Those of you who don't get called back should learn these songs regardless, for your own enrichment." Weak laughter. "Okay. Callbacks will be posted… Wednesday. Thanks everybody."

***

At dinner that night I talked about the try-outs, and Chris made set suggestions. I asked her about her important news. She changed the subject, then said her gallery had been selected for the city's gallery tour – great publicity. But that wasn't what she had called to tell me. I knew her.

It was while I was directing a play that I first met Chris. We became caffeine buddies while working on a production of Tom Stoppard's _Rosencrantz and Gildenstern Are Dead_. My favorite of all his plays, because of that Shakespeare connection. I was directing and she was designing sets, and we saw eye to eye from the start. There certainly was a flirtation there, but we were both involved with other people then, and play productions are laden with flirtations onstage and off – you never know what's real. And we were only 20, 21.

We worked on other plays together, graduated, went separate ways and wrote or called periodically -- stayed in touch through my books, through her stint at the Design School, mine in India, and reconnected after not having seen each other for six years, when I came back to Chicago for my teaching certificate and she came to be assistant curator of decorative arts at the Museum. And ended up in bed that night. "We should have done this a long time ago," I remember saying, and she grinned and rolled on top of me. We moved in together less than a month later. 

Were we happy? There were long stretches of bliss. I thought she was It. She was one of the few people I knew who got my obscure literary references and had read all of Shakespeare's works for fun. "I might have missed a few sonnets," she'd say. For a couple years I could be oblivious and ignore the fact that she ignored some of my questions. Like marriage. And children. I wanted to get married, settle down, have kids, the way my parents had. Here I was, pushing 37, with only a glint in my eye.

"Why get married? Were fine with each other!" Chris would say. "A piece of paper's not going to change anything!"

"What about children?"

And always she'd put off the topic of children. "Did I tell you I got that job with Second City?" she'd deflect. Finally, when I kept switching the conversation back, she came out with it.

"What do you need children for? You've got all those kids in high school. That's plenty of children."

"It's not the same as little Chrises and Augusts crawling around underfoot," I pushed her further.

"Gus," she said, the only one who could ever call me that. "I don't want kids. I really don't. I know I'm a woman, I'm supposed to want children, but I don't. I don't want to adopt them, I don't want to give birth to them. I love you, and I want to spend my life with you, but if you want kids so much, it's not going to be with me."

I moved out gradually. Found the house near the school – I could bike there in warmer weather. And that was that. Though we still saw each other, and occasionally slept together; in three years, neither of us had found someone else. At least, I hadn't. I had the feeling, lately, that Chris had, but was avoiding telling me. I was avoiding her telling me too. Although our arrangement wasn't ideal, it was better than nothing. And I thought, how ironic it was; we broke up so I could find someone to have children with, and three years later my only progeny would still be the books I sired before I was 25.

***

After dinner, Chris invited me back to her condo. She poured us each a scotch, then came and sat next to me on the couch. We sipped Bowman's 21 year – she always had the good stuff. "So the gallery's doing well," I said, waiting to hear what she wanted to say.

"Very well. Supplemented by the set designs, of course." She turned and took my glass from me and put it on the coffee table. "Gus," she began, then leaned over and kissed me, her lips smoky from the scotch. I responded warmly – it had been at least three months since we last spent the night together. She began to unbutton my shirt. I leaned forward and kissed her neck She caressed my shoulders.

"I'm getting married," I heard her above me, voice muffled through her throat. I pulled back and she leaned down and tried to kiss my lips again. "Gus?"

I reached past her for my scotch, gulped the burning liquid.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I was kissing your neck. I thought I heard you say you're getting married."

"I did." She moved back to sit next to me, her thigh still pressed against mine.

"Married."

"Married."

"So…?" I touched her lips, then mine.

"I don't know. I'm confused. You've been part of my life for so long, I just thought I needed to be with you again to be sure."

"Sure?"

"That Barry's the right one. That I'm making the right decision."

I shifted my leg away. "This seems rather sudden. "

She sipped her scotch. "It's not. I've known Barry for a while – he's one of my regular artists."

"Barry Bruno? That abstract expressionist whose opening I went to last month?" I remembered him now, arm around Chris, but her exhibiting artists always had their arms around her – she was showing their art, they all loved her. "Were you with him the last time we…?"

"Three months ago. Not exactly. We hadn't fallen in love yet."

"So were you making sure then, too?"

"Gus, why does it matter to you? We're not dating."

"Because, I guess I believe in monogamy, Chris. Like right now. If you need to be with me to be sure about this guy, it doesn't say much about you and him."

"You don't understand."

"No, I guess I don't. Anyway, why get married? What happened to 'It's just a piece of paper'?"

"I'm 41, August. Barry says he'll leave if we don't get married. And I don't want him to leave."

"So you didn't care if I left."

"You never said you would."

"Isn't he, well, kind of young?" A dig. Chris looks a good ten years younger than she is, and the gallery crowd is younger, so she tends not to broadcast her age.

"He's 34. That's not so young. We're both consenting adults."

I felt empty, and odd, disconcerted. It's not like I wanted to be back together with Chris, I'd come to see that over the past three years, though I savored our friendship, since she now was one of my oldest friends and knew me almost as well as my sisters. I enjoyed sleeping with her periodically, but maybe it was too convenient – didn't have to make the effort toward developing a relationship with anyone, even if theoretically I wanted to. But Chris marrying someone would definitely affect us.

"Sorry. I guess I'm just, I don't know. Jealous?"

"Jealous? Of Barry?"

"No… of you. You've found someone. At least you think so." I picked up her hand, turned it over, traced her love line. "You know things will change with us, don't you?"

"I don't want them to."

"But they will. Just – do me a favor."

"What?"

"I don't want to be this kind of part of you 'making sure.' I don't want to be the 'other' man in somebody's relationship, on any level. So, let's still meet for meals, see plays, whatever. But not… this."

"Fair enough. Friends, though?

"Always." I downed the last half inch of scotch and got up, my head spinning slightly. I felt too lightheaded to drive, and walked around Chris's darkened neighborhood, feeling braced by the cold wind that came swirling through the empty streets off the lake. I must have walked an hour, thinking about nothing, when a line from one of my student's papers filtered into my head. Grace's journal._ Sometimes the thing I think I want isn't the thing at all. I know that, but I don't know where to look, and I want to want something_. These years since Chris had been a limbo. I thought I wanted children, but maybe I wanted something else altogether. And then, words… _A poem unbidden came to me/ as I walked deserted streets at dawn./ You need me now, she said to me./ I don't, I said. I need the dawn._ I was at my car. I got in, took a pen, wrote the words down on the back of an envelope, not sure where they were going, but they kept coming until they stopped. Without reading what I had written, I put the key in the ignition and drove home.


	4. Casting

Thanks, all, for your responses. And a special thank you thank you to Grace_Dimitri_fan for her essential assistance in transcribing scenes I couldn't see, so I could be as accurate as possible.

This is a long one. Enjoy.

***

**Chapter 4: Casting**

Chris… married. A chapter ended, a story finished. Distance, distance is good for clarity. We each needed it. I was grateful for the distraction of my students, the minutiae of assignments, the urgency of their lives. And glad for the play, something else to occupy my mind and time fully outside of class work. 

An odd thing happened today, after the callbacks. 

I had listed Jessie, along with Cynthia and Grace, as a callback for Rosalind. She had been auditioning for the smaller role of Phoebe; this was her first play. But, she seemed to have the potential to be very good. Still, unless Grace truly flubbed her lines or was totally tone deaf, she was my pick. Yet… I didn't want her to be complacent about getting the role. I had the sense that Grace was used to doing well in school, to getting the parts she tried out for, with minimal effort. It could be good for her to feel the bite of competition. Jessie, with that voice, just might push her into a better performance.

Cynthia, Cynthia was fine, but no Rosalind. She would be good as Celia. Jessie's acting was stronger this time – she'd had time to read Rosalind's lines, and her singing still sent a chill. Voice of an angel. Celia was a bigger speaking part, but I'd given Phoebe, as a shepherdess, more songs. 

Grace's reading of the lines at callbacks was even better than her initial audition. Perhaps Jessie's better performance had indeed brought out her competitive edge. She gave a little bow at the end, and I responded, "I must say, I enjoyed that very much." Wanted to encourage her, hoped she'd be relaxed when singing, hoped she _could_ sing. "Now, let's hear your song."

She closed her eyes a moment, licked her lips, reached into her pocket for something. "Whenever you're ready," I said. I heard a faint note – she'd brought a pitch pipe. Taking no chances. She took a breath, and then she sang. To my… what, relief? joy? Grace had a lovely singing voice. Not the breath-stopping clarity of her stepsister, but quite nice, strong, the voice, actually, I'd consider Rosalind to have. Rosalind wouldn't have a high, sweet, porcelain voice – that would be more suitable for Phoebe. Grace's voice was solid, rich, and made me smile.

I'd pretty much made up my mind for most parts by the end of callbacks, but knew from experience I should sleep on it and think a bit more, discuss it with my stage manager. And the male roles were less certain. Though I know the auditioners would prefer to know the results immediately.

Grace was the last callback. When she finished, I climbed on stage. "Okay," I said. "You were all great, thank you for preparing your songs so nicely. I will be posting the cast list… let's see… Friday afternoon." Groans – that meant two full days of waiting. I continued, "The cast should meet here for the first rehearsal this Monday. See you lucky actors then!"

Everyone filed out of the auditorium. I looked around, wondered where Alexa was – I needed to go over the casting with her, especially for Orlando, Silvius, and Oliver. I stepped into the back hallway to get a drink and saw a figure down the hall. "Alexa?" I called. But it wasn't Alexa, who, I realized, had probably taken one of her annoying clandestine cigarette breaks. It was Grace, leaning against the wall near the soda machine. She straightened up when she heard my voice, and we both said "Hi" simultaneously. I walked to the machine, and Grace said  "Hi" again as I approached her. Her face was flushed – post performance jitters, perhaps. "So, who knew you had such a great voice?" I commented.

"Yeah," she said, surprised. "Who knew?"

I tried to insert a dollar bill into the machine without luck. Too crinkled. I smoothed it out. Success. "It really was quite an audition," I added, thinking of her strong overall performance, between the acting and the singing. "You should be proud."

"Thanks," she said, and she smiled then, with almost a complacency that unexpectedly irritated me. I didn't want her to think she was a shoo-in for this. Even though she was. I felt compelled to test her then, remembering, suddenly, a fellowship I had applied for my senior year of college.

There were five us, Creative Writing majors, finalists for a Reynolds Fellowship. It was a graduate residency plus a stipend of $10,000 – not a huge amount, even 20 years ago, but a decent amount for an aspiring author. They pick one writer from each of seven colleges; it was a plum position, so naturally many applied. The selection narrowed down to five, and then came the second part of the application. They already had writing samples, recommendations, interviews. But now we had to write a one-paragraph evaluation of each competitor from our school, highlighting their strengths and weaknesses.

I remember at the time resenting the hell out of this assignment. The five of us had taken many classes together, we knew each other well, and I was close friends with two, Bill and Sonya. But if I praised them too much, would they be chosen over me? If I accentuated the negative too much, what would that say about me? I was tempted to withdraw from the application, until Bill told me he had finished his and sent it in. What did he say about me? I speculated. I stayed up late writing my own evaluations and sent them off the next day, not saving a copy, not wanting to read again what I had written.  

I did not get the fellowship, and neither did Bill, and I always wondered what we had said about each other, how it had affected the decision. Had we betrayed each other or ourselves?

I looked at Grace thoughtfully and said, "But…" her smiled thinned as I continued. "I guess you'll have a lot of competition."

"Yeah, I guess I will.," she said, not knowing where I was going.

"Now, Jessie Sammler is your stepsister?'

Grace's smile was gone now, her voice guarded. "Yeah," she answered.

I took a bottle of water from the machine and opened the top. "Do you guys get along?" 

"Sure. Yeah. Well, it can be, you know, awkward."

I laughed. "This must be really awkward, huh? Both up for the same part?"

Grace laughed too, slightly forced. Not her best acting moment. "I'm fine with it," she lied.

"Really. And if she gets the part?" I pushed her further, wanting to see where she'd go.

"It's okay. I mean, she's good. She's…" Her breath caught, as if she were going to say something more. I took a sip of my water and waited. "Jessie's really sensitive." She looked at me, then looked away. "Which makes her a good actress."

_Sensitive_. That's always a code word for something. Was Grace trying to sabotage Jessie's audition? Was I? After all, I had pushed this conversation here, Grace hadn't approached me. Why was I doing this? I couldn't seem to stop. Putting Grace to the test I had undergone and resented. Exposing her to herself. Exposing her to life. "What do you mean?" I asked.

Grace hesitated, and I saw that her cheeks were flushed again. The words came out quickly. "Just that she's sensitive. Which is good. But it also might make it hard for her."

If Grace was going to say whatever she was implying about Jessie, I wanted her to come right out and say it. Not hint around with veiled code words. She should be specific. "How?" I asked. "How would it be hard?" Should I be concerned? Was this a real issue, or just Grace's jealousy?.

The hall was still, quiet. Would anything Grace said now actually change any decisions I would make? Grace looked up at me nervously, her brown eyes closed off. Then down at her feet. "I don't know. Never mind," she said, ready to retreat.

I shook my head. "What?" Forcing it out of her.

She looked at me again. I couldn't read her expression in the dim light of the hallway. "If she got the part, it might be difficult."

"Why?"

Grace sighed, in all the way now. "Because she's had some problems."

I stepped closer to Grace, trying to understand her expression. "What kind of problems?"

Still looking away from me, Grace said, "Well, she had an eating disorder last year. It was really tough on her." She turned and looked up at me quickly, and I saw that same guardedness in her eyes. "I just hope this wouldn't be too much pressure." Ah yes, sisterly concern, that's all. Subtle but sharp.

The doors to outside opened suddenly, and there was my errant stage manager, appearing in a waft of fresh smoke. She saw me and started. "Just had to go to my locker," she said guiltily, never mind that the lockers were in the opposite direction.

I had to say something. "Uh huh. Alexa, you really shouldn't smoke."

She smiled weakly, said, "I know," and rushed into the auditorium. I turned back to Grace, who was now looking at me, searchingly. I was reacting on several levels. To the actual information, to the fact of her telling me what she did, to the fact of me pulling it out of her. Jessie was anorexic? She did look thin, but it hadn't affected her performance at the auditions, which can be even more stressful than the actual play sometimes. I had already determined she wouldn't be the best Rosalind, and Grace's words hadn't changed my mind about wanting to cast her in the play. They didn't change my mind about wanting to cast Grace, either; she obviously wanted this part very much. She had… responded as I had, and probably as Bill had. We knew each other well, too well, better than the other candidates, and knew the weaknesses that could seem weakest.

Competition does funny things to people, to artists, and by artists I mean writers and actors as well. And teachers. We are a sensitive lot.

Theatre is a release from daily life too, whether on stage or behind. As a director, I get to create a little world, an alternate reality. And an actor gets to disappear into that fantasy, which is more of a certainty, with its set lines of action, predetermined ending, than everyday life, with its unpredictability and unasked for surprises. Like divorcing parents, second weddings, sudden siblings.

Acting must be a release for Grace, something that would take her away from the confusion of her life. And as I remembered only too well, being 16 was confusing enough. Which brought me back to myself. Why had I pushed her like that? Perhaps I knew she wanted to say what she did, some part of her needed to. Why did I need her to say it? Why did I need to hear it? I actually admired her.

Abruptly, I didn't want to think about it anymore. What's said was said. I raised my hand in a wave. "Bye, Grace," I said, and headed back into the auditorium.

"Bye." I heard her say behind me.

***

Alexa was sitting on the stage, with a pages spread out in front of her. "Want to know what I think?" She asked as I approached the stage. "I've made notes for each callback."

"Sure," I said. "Though I'm not ready to make any final decisions right now."

She gathered together the various pieces of paper and tapped them into a neat pile. "Well, why don't we go grab a bite for dinner, and we can discuss it?" she suggested. I looked up, saw that familiar hopeful look in her eyes that I've had occasion to see more than once over the past ten years. It's not like I'm some amazing example of maleness; teachers, especially male teachers, invariably get picked as the object of some student's affection. And when that happens, when it becomes obvious, which it usually is, it needs to be discouraged from the get-go.

I couldn't tell Alexa she could no longer be stage manager because I suspected she might have a crush on me, but I could make sure we related solely on a student-teacher level, and all interactions were strictly impersonal. The auditorium was safe, big, public, people came and went. Dinner would not be, and a private tete a tete was not something to encourage..

"Can't do that. Just give me your notes and I'll go over them. If I have any questions, I'll ask you before the next tech meeting. I make all final picks on my own, anyway."

"Oh, I know," she rushed to say. "I just thought it would be easier if I explained my notes, and we could, you know, talk about it."

"I'm sure your notes will be fine as they are, thanks Alexa." I reached for her the stack of pages, which she handed me. "I must away now. I'll let you know if I need any more info." I got my coat and valise from a seat in the auditorium and left before she could ask again.

***

I did have questions for Alexa for the next day. I asked her to come to the classroom at lunchtime, again, safe public territory, door left open. When she came in, she initially sat at the edge of my desk, but I indicated she should sit in one of the chairs. She told me what I needed to know in ten minutes.

When she left, I shut the door and put a tape in my walkman. Nothing like vintage Linda Ronstadt to help me concentrate. "Dark End of the Street"… "Heart Like a Wheel"… "When Will I be Loved"… I realized I wasn't going to have my final decision made by three that day, wouldn't have time to post the cast list. I'd just call everyone instead. I didn't mean to prolong the agony, but I wanted to make the best decisions. I put together my papers into my valise and left the room, thinking about Tad as Orlando, and crashed right into Grace, who apparently had been lurking by the door. I caught her arm to steady her, greeting her.

"Hi," she said. She was probably waiting for the cast list, I thought, though it was still early in the day. To save her the trouble of coming back, I told her, "I've decided not to post the cast list – I'm think I'm going to call everybody up at home instead." I locked the classroom door. "It's less ferocious." And I started to walk away.

Apparently that wasn't the reason she had been lingering about. "Oh… okay. So you've decided already?" She asked, a false casualness  effectively masking her nervousness. Her question annoyed me too, disproportionately; obviously, if I had decided already the cast list would have been posted by now.

"Pretty much," I answered, taking my walkman out of my pocket and heading to the teacher's lounge for new batteries.

"Oh," she said, and I looked at her, really looked at who she was then, Grace Manning, a junior, looking very worried. Distraught. 

"Is there something else?" I stopped and asked.

She looked around. Students were moving down the hall in the end-of-lunch rush. "I hope you… I hope you understand that what I said about Jessie was in the past, and she's fine now -- " I touched Grace's shoulder. She didn't have to do this. She shouldn't be feeling so guilty, still. It's not so bad to be human. Her eyes shifted to my hand on her shoulder, and it looked suddenly unnatural there, conspicuous. "And I don't think it would be a problem."  

I moved my hand to my side. "You don't?"

"No," said Grace, with determination.

"But you brought it up," I pointed out. I had reached the stairs and climbed a couple.

"I did," she admitted. "But…"

I looked down at her. Here eyes were filled with guilt. But, she had said what she said. "But what?"

Grace followed up a few steps. "But… what I said, it doesn't mean anything."

I stopped climbing the stairs. I really wanted to get everything straight so I could make the decisive calls by 6 that evening. Jerry had insisted that I go with him and Rene into town to hear a new local band. And I wanted Grace to accept to herself that she had told me things about Jessie that maybe she shouldn't have, but that she needed to at that point in time. I turned and faced Grace. "Grace," I said. "Everything means something." Words I would remember later.

She said nothing else, just slumped her shoulders, looking defeated. I continued up the stairs to the teacher's lounge.

***

Jerry was there, grading papers. "Yo, August!" he said as I came in. I went to get a cup of weak coffee and pulled out a sandwich. "Play time, huh?" he said.

"Yeah," I said, pulling the callback list from my valise. "Casting decisions. How's Tad Lafferty?"

"Princeton?"

"Yeah."

"He's fine. Not the most expressive actor, but he'll learn his lines. And he'll probably have a fling with at least one of the female leads."

"Yeah… Alexa Yagoda said as much."

He looked up when I mentioned Alexa's name. "Yagoda? Is she your stage manager?"

"Yeah… why?"

"Just, watch out. She tends to get very chummy during play productions. I started having Rene come to rehearsals as a buffer." Rene was Jerry's girlfriend. Live-in.

"Did it help? She's already asked me to dinner."

"It did, actually. After a few times of warm greetings from Rene, she backed off. Still did a good job. She just seems to like teachers, I don't know. Todd Malcolm in Geometry  had to deal with her in ninth grade."

"Thanks for the warning. Maybe I'll borrow Rene some time."

"In your dreams, man."

***

By six, I had finally settled on the entire cast. I pulled out the school directory and began making calls. I got to Manning, Grace, and paused. One phone call for two roles. Who would I ask to speak to? Would I tell each of them separately? But that seemed overkill. I'd ask for Grace. I wanted to tell Grace she had the part, hear her reaction. It would be a grand part for her. Rosalind was one of Shakespeare's best female characters. I really loved _As You Like It_. With its hidden questions of sexual identity and attraction, nothing was what it seemed. In the end, everything tied together yet there was a lingering element of ambiguity.

I dialed the number. It rang, twice, three times, four times. Was no one there? I'd leave a message, I thought, disappointed I might be denied hearing Grace's reaction. On the sixth ring, someone picked up. Must have been Grace's mother. "This is August Dimitri, director of the play," I began. "Is Grace there?"

A pause, and then I heard Grace's voice, sounding older, disembodied on the phone. "Hello?"

"Grace," I began. "I just wanted to let you know you got the part of Rosalind."

Silence on her part. Had she heard me? "Grace? The play, you got the lead."

"Oh, okay," she said. Not exactly the reaction I had anticipated. This thing with her stepsister must have affected her more than I realized. "Can you let Jessie know she got the role of Phoebe?"

"Oh, okay," she said again, I wished I could see her face now, so I could sense what she was really feeling. Instead I got these odd monosyllabic responses.

"Try to curb your enthusiasm," I said into the void. "So we'll see you both Monday, then," I said. "Have a good weekend."

I hung up then, disconcerted. I knew I had made the right decision for the play, and I hoped I had made the right decision in pushing Grace.

I read Grace's journal that night, first in the stack, after I had made all the calls. _On top of her dresser is a porcelain Angel. From her mother. White, fragile, yet solid, man-made stone named for a shell. The stuff of figurines and tea cups. Cowrie. Carved ripples of long, flowing  hair, painted the yellow of corn silk, eyes blue glass, cheeks tinted the palest pink. Because angels, after all, are perfect, angels can do no wrong, but angels do know wrong._  _Terra-cotta is browned red, rough, bumpy with tiny, scratchy  imperfections. More practical, but less noticed. Less lovely. The stuff of flower pots and bricks. Sturdy and dependable, needs no care, baked earth. Porcelain shatters when it breaks. Terra-cotta crumbles back into dirt._

Sometimes the teacher in me loses sight of the person behind the student.

Everything means something.


	5. Rehearsals

Chapter 5: Rehearsals 

Looking for meaning, looking for meanings. Hearing the same song twice in one day on the radio… Crossing paths with a collarless orange tabby, who pauses to sniff your shoes but dashes away when you reach to pet her… knocking my coffee mug over as I reach for my third  cup, where it falls and shatters on the floor… Signs, omens, symbols? Always in literature, why not in life? Pick the song for the play, remember cats are fickle, quit drinking coffee. Or buy that album for your sister who's been asking for it, send money to the Animal Rescue League, get a new mug, didn't like that one anyway. Anything can have the meaning you choose to give it.

You think you're settled, you think you have a routine, you think you like the way your life is going, you know who you are, you know what to expect, and then the unexpected comes along, and you stumble, and you question. Writing life came, went. Teaching life came… stayed. Those extraordinary students every once in a while, students who have stayed friends, who send me copies of their articles,  their books, of whom I am proud, and for whom I was a teacher, a mentor, which is as it should be. Purely a teacher.

Why did I grill Grace like that? Was that my role as her teacher? Forcing her to expose her jealousy toward her stepsister? I regretted now the feelings I had pried out of her. I tried to tell myself I was making her be honest with herself, but I wasn't really. Yes, she revealed envy, but it was in a false way, feigning concern when the real issue was the competition she was feeling against this conventionally pretty girl, who sang effortlessly, who attracted people without trying, who seemed to be genuinely and naturally sweet. Grace was strong-willed, outspoken. Not sweet, prickly. Like me. Reactive to my detriment. To her detriment. I was her teacher, not her therapist.

Yet when I was around Grace, I sometimes felt stubbornly challenging, taciturn, confrontational. There was too much of me I felt in her, beyond the obvious red hair. There was the precocious writing. She was a reader, expressing the same excitement I still feel at reading a particularly wonderful passage, at discovering a new enthralling author. There was the social awkwardness of being bright as well, being a part of the class, yet slightly outside the action.

And then there was soccer. She played soccer. I saw her one day in early October as I unlocked my bike near the field. I played soccer in high school at a time when few Americans were playing soccer. But a group of us were inspired by Europe, football was not our path, but soccer was an achievable sport. Our school didn't even want to allow a soccer team. Which of course made me all the more determined. We persevered, got a league going, played games in spite of the administration, though we had to play in a field across town studded with broken beer bottles and sharp rocks, lest we "damage" the football field. And there she was, playing on a team on a chilly autumn day, right by the school on a smooth grassy field. Did I resent that she had it easier than I did?

This was an aspect of myself I did not like seeing. Sure, I've always had students that weren't exactly favorites, but always did my best to treat them fairly. And it wasn't a matter of disliking Grace. Maybe it was an uncertainty, of how I could best be the teacher of someone with so much potential in so many areas… maybe wanting to see more of me in her than there actually was, feeling unwelcome disappointment at the differences.

***

I read her short stories that weekend; I hadn't before, with all the preparation for the play. There were five, some she had written at least a year ago, and they showed her youth. But two showed real promise, and she had a flair for story telling that reminded me of Guy de Maupassant and Chekhov, almost a nineteenth-century romanticism and remove.

_"Voices"_

_Voices came when he was 16, but they were quiet then, whispered comforts in the dead of night when he should have been sleeping but couldn't. They helped him write the papers he couldn't finish when it was light still, got those essays done, math problems solved, all the things he said were fine when his father asked, when his mother worried. _

_He wondered if this was something everyone experienced when they were teenagers, but was afraid to ask his older brother Larry, Larry who excelled at everything and who was so certain and easy and so nice that even had he wanted to, he couldn't resent him. _

_His younger brother Joey, the kid brother, was only 10;  he wouldn't know about these things. But Joey sometimes seemed to know Adam better than a fifth-grader should, appearing once in the middle of the night as Adam was listening to Nila tell him how to complete his lab report for chemistry. Adam didn't see him standing there  until Joey spoke. Nila had been filling his head with images of chemical reactions and the periodic table, making the subject matter so much brighter and clearer than the teacher ever did, and he had just said, "Thank you, I get it now," when he felt a touch on his shoulder and heard a different, louder voice._

_"You should be sleeping now, Adam." Joey put his small hand gently on Adam's shoulder, and Nila was silent, gone. The clock read 2:17._

_Adam took Joey's hand. "Tuck me in," he whispered, and shuffled to his bed. Joey pulled the blanket over him, then crossed the room and lay down in the empty twin bed opposite._

I made notes, put the stories away, and resolved to play teacher only to Grace, to let her be when I felt unaccountably irritated. In her stories I saw her vulnerability, which made it easier for me to be a teacher, and I remembered the healthier kind of pushing I had done when I first gave the journal assignment. She was Rosalind, Jesse was Phoebe, that's how it was, and rehearsals were beginning Monday.

***

After two weeks of scripted rehearsals, I announced, "Players. I think we are now ready to minimize script use. Start putting some action with these words. Learn your lines"

"When're we getting the songs?" Tad called out.

Ah, yes, the songs. I had twelve in mind, but hadn't yet picked them all. "I'm still finalizing the list," I replied. "And making a tape so you all can learn the songs, rather than suffering through my singing. I should have tapes and lyrics for you later this week."

When we rehearsed a more romantic scene between Orlando and Rosalind, I saw a challenge Grace faced as an actress. Tad was all charisma that day, playing Orlando as if Orlando were Tad himself, ever the charmer, stroking Grace's cheek, looking into her eyes, and Grace responded on an almost chemical level, getting flustered, giggling uncharacteristically to the point where she couldn't recite her lines with a straight face. 

"And then Rosalind begins to giggle uncontrollably," I commented to calm things down. But it was late, and I didn't think we'd get any better performances that day. Rehearsal was over. I noticed Grace watching Tad walk off stage, and it occurred to me she liked him, that she had responded to his flirtations on a nonacting level. I felt a pang for her, having come across too many Tads in my experience.  Oddly, I found myself wishing to play Orlando. To protect Grace from Tad's Orlando? I dismissed the thought. "Huge leap today," I called out as the students left. They had been pretty good about memorizing lines. I looked for Alexa to go over prop procurement, but she must have been on one of her "locker" breaks.

I put my script in my valise and looked up. Grace was still in the auditorium. She apologized for laughing, then added, "I don't actually mind."

"Mind what?" I asked.

She looked down, and in the dim light of the auditorium she appeared to be blushing. "That he keeps, you know, _flirting_ with me."

I started at her use of the word, of her acknowledgment, both of the flirtation, and of , well, her enjoyment of it, and I felt another pang. It must not have been one of my better poker-faced moments, because after a pause she said, "Now you look shocked or something." I did? I shouldn't. Of course she liked the flirtatious attention from one of the more popular boys in school, from her costar. That was normal. Was it her confiding tone that made me nervous?

I turned and saw my coffee thermos still on the table. I picked it up, stalling for time. Lamely I said, "Well, I wake up looking shocked or something. Ignore it."

"Oh, okay," she said.

As I stood to leave, I felt compelled to add, "I have heard of 'flirting.'" Like, I need to tell her I'm a person as well as a teacher?

In a rushed voice she said, " I just don't want you to think that I don't take this seriously."

Of course I knew how seriously she took this, and everything. I started up the aisle. "Giggling is permitted," I said, "In Shakespeare."

"It is?" she said, seriously.

"No flirting, though." 

Still serious, she responded, "Well, tell Tad! He's the one who keeps – Oh." She got me.

If they could maintain that banter in the play, it could actually be good in spite of Tad's tendency to overact. When Grace reacted on an emotional level, her portrayal of Rosalind improved.

***

Unfortunately, at the next rehearsal, whatever chemistry had been going on between Grace and Tad had fizzled away. Grace's scenes with Tad were invariably wooden, and I got the sense she'd be happier playing her role against a cardboard cutout. It was an early scene, an important scene that establishes how Rosalind and Orlando feel about each other before they even got to know one another. When we rehearsed the scene the day before, Grace-as-Rosalind thoughtfully removed her necklace and shyly placed it around Tad-as-Orlando's neck. I told them to play the scene as they had yesterday. Tad kneeled before Grace, looking up at her. She looked down at him as if he were something unpleasant she had just stepped in. 

I heard giggles behind me – Jessie and a few other girls found something amusing. Grace did not. Sounding as if she were dictating a letter, Grace removed the necklace and said, "Gentleman. Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune, That could give more, but that her hand lacks means." Instead of placing the chain around his neck, as she did yesterday, Grace just held out the necklace as if the idea of touching Tad was utterly repugnant to her. Not exactly conveying the love at first sight warranted by this scene. Tad looked confused. Practiced flirters always do – they have no sense of their affect on their flirtees.

Not sure what to do, Tad, asked Grace if she was going to do it the way she had before. In response, Grace snapped. "I'll do it how I do it!" Obviously, it was time for a break, even though we had barely started. I told everyone to take five,  and Grace disappeared from the stage and pushed through the doors at the back of the auditorium. I went after her. She quickly turned her back when she heard the doors open. She seemed, through her anger, to be sad, hurt, about something. As an actress, she couldn't let her moods dictate her performances. But I wanted to help, not force her, this time, to admit things she probably didn't want to admit, to me or to herself.

"Just use it," I said, and she looked up. "Whatever you're feeling, just use it in the scene. And do whatever you want with that necklace. Just try not to hurt him. Much." I thought I saw a ghost of a smile, but it could have been the poor lighting. I went back into the auditorium. A few minutes later Grace reentered. We ran through the scene again, and this time she was gracious and acting and responsive to Tad's Orlando, though I noticed a distance in her eyes, a reserve that had not been there yesterday. When Tad's scene was finished, he walked off stage and went and sat next to Jessie, and began whispering to her. Grace stumbled a moment on her next lines, but then continued.****

I thought this incident had cleared the air for Grace, that she had put aside her personal hurts, and could lose herself in the role, but I was wrong.

Rehearsal was short the next day, since I wanted to get ready for the parent meeting, during which I would explain the details of  lengthy rehearsal schedules, ask for parent volunteers for prop and set help, the cast party, all the minutiae of putting on a high-school play. I also needed to make the final song selections, and had brought stacks of records to listen to in the theatre. I had managed to find an old portable turntable in one of the supply rooms. Before rehearsal, I went to my car to bring in a few milk crate's worth. Alexa, fresh from a smoke, saw me by my car and came over to help.

"Look at all these records," she commented.  "I didn't know anyone still had them." We each took a milk crate. "They're heavy!"

"Yeah, well," I said, "Some of these songs aren't on any CDs."

After two trips we had everything on the stage. Alexa began taking records out of the crates, spreading them out on a table to look through them. "Be careful with those," I cautioned. "They're not indestructible like CDs."

"Maybe we can grab a bite to eat after rehearsal and go over the song choices?" Alexa offered.

"I'll be needing to get ready for the parent meeting," I said. "I have a list we can go over before rehearsal on Monday."

Alexa left right after rehearsal with the rest of the cast. Grace had no scenes with Tad, though the few she had with Jessie were tense. Grace had learned all her lines already, and seemed frustrated by the fact that Jessie still needed to refer to the script.

After rehearsal, I had a couple hours before the parents came to listen to songs. I had most of them selected, and needed to assign a couple more. I considered the conclusion of Act I, where the banished Rosalind, who has just fallen in love with Orlando, decides to disguise herself as a boy, Ganymede. Because no love story can ever be easy. Then we would have a very short play. There have to be obstacles to overcome to make the achievement of mutual love a success. That has been the theme of romantic theatre since time immemorial, from Adam and Eve right through the 1950s musicals of boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy sings song, boy gets girl. Linda Ronstadt's "Heart Like a Wheel," would make a melancholy, moving transition to Act II.

I looked around for the album. In the short time between taking the records from my car and the end of rehearsal, Alexa and the other tech people had managed to spread the records all over the stage, it seemed. "Where is 'Heart Like a Wheel'?" I asked out loud, as if the stage would answer. 

From behind me I heard, "Mr. Dimitri?" It was Grace. What did she want now?

I kept looking through the records on a table. "I just saw it here, somewhere…"

"I'm thinking about quitting," Grace said in a rush. I froze. Grace, quit the play? The thought hadn't crossed my mind that she would want to do that. There was no one else who could play Rosalind as she could, I knew that. Just the shear number of lines to learn, if nothing else. "I mean, I think I may have to –" I turned around and looked at her as she walked toward the stage. "Quit. Well, because it's really a lot of time, you know, for something that isn't class work." 

I turned back to the records again. I needed a moment to collect my thoughts, to respond unemotionally to what she was saying, because I had a gut response that surprised me of No! No! You can't quit! _I_ need you to be in this play! 

She started to elaborate. "And also, I wasn't – is that it?" She pointed to an area I thought I had looked through.

"Where?" I asked, and followed her finger. The album was right there on top. "Yeah." I took the record out of the sleeve and moved over to the record player. "You weren't what?" I prompted.

"I wasn't _feeling_ anything." I turned to look at her. "You said 'Use what you're feeling.' I wasn't feeling anything."

"Oh, well…" Yeah, right. Confessing to liking the flirtation one day, angry about the lack of a flirtation the next. Not feeling anything my… but I had resolved not to poke at her again. I was not a therapist. And I could feel her sadness. "Okay," I said simply. I put the album on the record player.

Grace continued, "And it just seems like it's not working. I mean, Tad and I don't seem to have any chemistry… or _anything_."

"Chemistry?" I repeated dumbly. A continuation of the confidences of the other day? I turned the player on and lifted the needle.

"Yeah, where… you know…" she faltered. "Heart Like a Wheel" came on, Linda's voice, full and rich, despite the poor record player.

I interrupted Grace, "Just, just listen to this." Wanting her to get lost in the music instead of this silly notion about quitting.

But she continued, "Where it seems like you belong with someone, or something."

"_But my love for you is like a sinking ship. And my heart is on that ship out in mid-ocean,_" Linda sang.

"To close Act I," I said, pointing to the record. "What do you think?"

"_When harm is done, no love can be won_."

"I think," Grace said in a high, thin voice, and I realized she was concentrating on not crying. "I think you should give the part to…"

Give the part to someone else? "To?" I said.

"To whoever you decide to give it to," she said softly, then turned to leave the auditorium.

"Hey!" I called after her, thoughts collected, knowing, for once, the right thing to say. "I've already done that! I think _you_ are _perfect_ for this!" Quite simply, she was, and this would be her song to sing. She looked up at me then, and smiled, a full, warm, grateful smile that even reached her eyes. I turned up the music.

_And it's only love  
And its only love  
That can wreck a human being  
And turn him inside out_

She sat on the stage, still wearing her heavy backpack, and said, "Why do you like such weird music?"

_Weird_? Linda Ronstadt, one of the best female vocalists ever, _weird_? "Exactly what are you implying?" I asked. "Are you implying I'm weird?" And I smiled back at her. She laughed. Crisis averted. "Careful," I warned. "We wouldn't want to let that guard down." I walked over to some folding chairs. "Then where would we be?" Grace smiled again.

I unfolded the chair and sat down near the record player on the stage. Grace started to unshrug her backpack. "Do you mind if I just stay and listen to this for a while?" she asked.

"Please," I said, happy to share with her one of my favorite songs. I'd convert her to Linda yet. Grace settled onto the stage comfortably. I noticed she had a necklace with some delicate shells around her neck. Cowry, I wondered? Hard as bone, yet finely shaped, a miniature home, complete. "What's that around you neck?" I asked. "Is that a seashell?"

She fingered the shell. "Yeah."

"It's lovely." And I was rewarded with another smile, small, inner. I leaned my chair back. "I like this music," I commented, trying to explain its appeal to me. "It's, it's all broken in, you know, like an old chair. You can just curl up in it, rock."

We listened in amicable silence to the end of the song, and to the rest of the album side. When the scratching needle announced the end, Grace stood up slowly and said, "I better get home.  But I like her, kind of. Sounds old-fashioned. I think that song will be good where you said." 

"Then I've got all the songs picked." I handed her a copy of the list I had made. "These are the others I'm planning to use," I said. "Maybe you know them." There were twelve songs. "Three of them will be your solos."

She took the list, glanced at it, and put it in her pocket. She pulled her backpack over one shoulder, jumped off the stage, and headed up the aisle. I lifted the album from the player and slipped it back into the sleeve. I turned to watch her leave. At the door she turned back, paused. "Thanks," she said, as was gone.

***

The following Friday, along with her journal, there was a square padded envelope. I opened it that night, and inside was a CD.  Folded in beside it was a song list with a note, "Some songs I like." I never pay much attention to current music, except for the female soloists – Sinead O'Connor, Celine Dion, Jewel. These were all groups, most of which I hadn't heard of. Goo Goo Dolls. Poe. Garbage. Though some I knew that had started when I was in college, like REM and Wings.  I put it on as I read her journal. 

I wondered what the message was, embedded in the lyrics. Then I realized. There were twelve songs, just like on the list I gave her. And each was a lyrical equivalent to the folk or female vocalist songs I had chosen. "Heart Is Like a Wheel." By Paul McCartney and Wings – Paul , who I paid no attention to since he left the Beatles,  A group called Poe singing "Fly away, sweet bird of prey." I put the CD on as I read her journal.

_You wouldn't think something as simple and plain as milky white watered down pearls would matter. Inside the shell, outside the shell, for some people a necklace is totally superfluous, when they have eyes that sparkle already, and skin that glows. I mean, what's the point? The point is, decorations are a sign of trust, of investment, of interest, of caring. Of trust. ie was not to be trusted. Couldn't see grace for the gracie. The parent always sees the younger child, the one who broke the wedding teapot, the one who lost the Chinese earrings, the one who muddied the rug. A new child, an older child, has no history, no record of faults, comes in with a clean slate. Who can compete with a clean slate? With a lack of history. Newborn at 14. We are who we are, we're trying to know who we are. We. The radiant one against a cup bearer. Moon goddess, Apollo's sister. _

_I had always thought the moon was my friend. To see the moon, sliver, silver, waxing, waning ,white,  half with a blurry edge or full and round in all its glory, mysterious shadows within, craters that may well be a face, could see a goddess there, has a regular schedule, a pattern, a dependability of change, unlike the sun, which dazzles, overwhelms, brightness that blinds so I can only hear the music, if I could only hear the music._

_And a necklace sits, rejected, on a dresser top._

Some things mean everything.


	6. Program Notes

Chapter 6: Program Notes 

Afterward, when it was all over, I thought back, tried to think back, to when it had all started. My Moments of Grace – they're what I have now. Fragments I take out, review when I'm alone, turn over in my mind, then put safely away on a shelf hidden behind many doors. 

What about those confrontational exchanges? Such confusion of feelings then, not at all acknowledged in my mind, infuriation disguising infatuation? But more than that. Deeper. Realer. 

What was the turning point? I don't think I realized, at the time, that there was such a point, that there was any turning. But with the heightened vision of hindsight, I can see it now. It was going to happen, it did happen.

Maybe it was listening to Linda together, the ease. Grace. I just liked to say her name out loud, and looked for excuses to do so. Without realizing, for a long time. Or what seemed like a long time. Things should have stayed in my head, everyone would have been happier, healthier, safer if they had stayed in my head. Not made their way to my heart. Because when the heart takes over, reason fades. The heart searches for reciprocity.

Maybe it was after hearing the CD she had burned for me, impressed by the cleverness of finding songs that so perfectly matched those I had chosen. It made me smile. Grin. And I even liked a lot of the songs. Part of my musical education.

Maybe it was the time I did actually play Orlando. Briefly, so briefly, on that chaotic, uncomfortable Thanksgiving. 

Only the second time I had not gone to my parents' in St. Paul. Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday. My sisters and I would always congregate at my parents' house, regardless of where we were, except for that year I was in India. Sometimes we'd bring along girlfriends, boyfriends, sometimes not, and half a dozen cousins would show up too. The dinner was casual, a turkey and whatever anyone felt like making. 

But this year Mom called and said she and Dad just didn't feel up to it, and April said it was easier to have it her house now, anyway, with three kids of her own under 7, travel at Thanksgiving was really hard. Time the next generation took over. June and Sal were coming from Boston, with their baby, Lia. Except then they got snowed in. Wouldn't make until Friday. It never snows in Boston in November they kept complaining, but they wouldn't be here. Starting at 7 instead of the usual 4 because April underestimated the time it would take for the turkey to cook, and Mom and Dad got a late start driving down from St. Paul. They'd be going straight to my house, then we'd drive over together to Wilmette.

The snafu with electricity on Wednesday, with losing the rehearsal space on Thanksgiving, leading us to Grace's house, and my feeling of anticipation, as I drove a carful of kids, following behind Grace's carful of kids, at seeing where she lived. Curiosity, seeing her actual home against the one I'd seen these past few months in her journal.

Orlando – I – kissed her hand then. Now part of my graceful memories, then an intentionally wooden gesture as we went through the movements of the scene for the tech people. Kept it brusque, had to, for my sake, thoughts I didn't yet know I was having. Her mother there, distracted, behind me on my knees before Grace. "To you I give myself, for I am yours," Just heard them as Shakespeare's words, then, but memory now turns them into hers, for me. Absurd, but an indulgence I allow myself, now, alone, far away from that dark November afternoon.

Afterward, driving home, getting ready for the family holiday, with a stack of student writing beside me on the seat.

Left on my kitchen counter for anyone to discover. Accidentally on purpose?

I came down the next morning to find my mother, for years a copy editor, reading through the stack of stories. She looked up as I came into the room. "You've got some good writers, this year, August," she said, holding up Grace's story. Draft 3 of "What You Need to Know."

_The three friends sat around the floor of Sondra's room. It was their Saturday night sleepover, the one they'd been having every other week, alternating houses, since they were 10. They were 14 now, and sat in a triangle, brushing and braiding hair. Blond, brunette, and the tight light-brown curls of Roxanne's Afro, which Charlotte loved to flatten down into corn rows with beads, a technique Roxanne's mother had taught her._

_"So, my Dad's moved out," Charlotte said, casually, concentrating on stringing a bead onto Roxanne's hair. The bead fell as Roxanne swung her head around._

_"What?" she exclaimed. "I thought you were one of the other ones whose parents had a perfect marriage!" Roxanne's parents were always lovey-dovey around each other, hugging and smiling and holding hands when they walked down the street. Roxanne would roll her eyes, but Charlotte knew she was happy about it. Though she complained, sometimes, as an only child, that she felt like a third wheel._

_"You're kidding, right?" Sondra joined in. Sondra, whose parents had been divorced since she was two, who saw her father twice a year, a week at Christmas, a week in the summer, when she had to fly by herself to visit him in Houston. "They've always had my model for marriage!"_

_Charlotte retrieved the fallen bead from where it had rolled under Sondra's bed. She kept her face flat, empty, which is how she had felt since Wednesday, when her parents had sat the family down to "make an announcement." She expected she would cry, but the shock was so unreal tears didn't seem available. She knew it was her mother's fault, though. She was always after her father to be home more, when everybody knows restaurant work is at night, he had to work late to make it successful. And then she complained there wasn't enough money, what was he doing all that time?_

_But nobody saw those arguments, heard those complaints. They happened late at night, behind the closed door of her parents' room. Charlotte heard them, though. Her room was next door, and the sound carried through the heating  vent. Her younger brother Bobby, only 9, never woke up. But she did, and her heart would go out to her father when she'd hear the defeated tone of defense in his voice._

_"So did I," she answered Sondra. "I think my mom's going through some mid-life thing,  or something. I know my dad didn't want to leave, but she couldn't shut the door behind him fast enough."_

_"Man." Roxanne shook her head. "Your dad's always been so cool. Like that time when we were 12, and he took us all to see the New Year's fireworks, even though our moms all thought it was way too late, but he said it was just once a year."_

_"That was cool," Sondra agreed. "And that time three years ago he took us camping in Wisconsin, and the mosquitoes kept going for him and he got all bit up, but we got hardly any? And your mom was all like 'Camping? Wait till they're a little older. It isn't safe, what if there are bears?'"_

_Charlotte listened to her friends gratefully, glad they were confirming her impression of her father, and of her mother. Just thinking of her mother made her face feel less empty, made it feel hot, angry, resentful. A place for blame. She didn't work, had never worked since Charlotte was born. She liked living in a nice house, liked going on vacations, how could she complain all the time? She was so unsupportive. If she ever got married, Charlotte swore she'd never do that. And she'd be working too, anyway. Maybe her husband would be the one to stay home._

_It was strange to go to bed in her house knowing her father would not be there in the morning. He was rarely home in the evenings, Charlotte was used to that. But, no matter what time he came home at night, he was always up to see Charlotte and Bobby before they left for school. Then he'd go back to bed for a couple hours before heading over to the restaurant. Mornings without Dad there had been tense, tenser each day as Charlotte's anger toward her mother grew, each time she looked at Dad's empty place at the breakfast table. It was a relief to spend the night at Sondra's, away from the house. Away from the empty space._

_"I don't want to go back there," she said suddenly._

_"Where?" Sondra asked._

_"My mother's house. She's such a bitch."_

_"So stay here. You're here practically all the time anyway."_

_It was tempting. Charlotte wondered how long it would take for her mother to even notice. Eighth grade ended in two weeks, high school was almost three months away. Charlotte was going to work in the restaurant this summer and take art classes at the community center. Maybe she could get a regular babysitting job. If she kept busy enough, she'd never have to be home at all._

Compartmentalizing. How I got through those weeks, those months, when Grace graced my thoughts.

In college I once dated a woman who asked, second date, before we had kissed more than good night, "What are your fantasies?" This was at the peak of sexual revolution, every woman in college was on the Pill, it was before AIDS, VD was a concern, but only mildly so. You couldn't _die_ from unprotected sex. Even the term _unprotected sex_ was not yet coined. There was, really, too much talk of sex, too many expectations of having it, doing it, getting it, because as far as we all thought then, 1980, there were no costs, there was no price, if it feels good do it, if you have an itch scratch it, never mind if you're ready or not, here you come. I was young in high school, young in college. When I was a junior at 19 and the very experienced K from Miami asked me what my fantasies were, I was embarrassed, stutteringly unable to answer, which turned out to be a turn on for her. Apparently 19-year-old male virgins were a rarity in her experience.

Experience. What I thought I wanted, when directly confronted, and K gave it to me, but tired of me quickly. But I, like a duck, was imprinted with her, fancied myself in love, wanted to be with her all the time, share my discovery of John Barth and Elizabeth Bishop. And she was premed, applied mathematics, took no English other than the required freshman, literature bored her, and she dropped me after a month.

I think my fantasy, had I told her truly, was love. Making Love with a capital L, rather than "doing It," with a capital I. I had images of sitting in bed scribbling in a notebook while she gently slept beside me after passionate lovemaking, but sex seemed to give K huge bouts of energy – she never spent the night, barely spent the hour.

When Grace started invading my thoughts, fantasy is not the word I would use. I just, I wanted to be with her, I wanted to see her, I anticipated her reactions to the books we would cover in class. It wasn't even being alone with her somewhere. And I managed to keep it innocent, if that's the best word, for a long time. But the problem with any affection, is you want to know – do they feel the same way? Does she feel the same way? I didn't get that crush "vibe' from Grace. Which was good. I told myself. I could teach her, guide her creative writing, direct her in plays. And it would be enough. Because I knew that thinking about a 16-year-old student, a girl, a _girl_, was inappropriate. Was wrong. Which is why I censored myself, cut off thoughts that might have drifted to the more traditional meaning of fantasy realm. Would not admit such thoughts of this person had any significance on a level beyond the professional.

***

"You know, some of her turns of phrase, and the maturity of her writing, remind a little bit of you in high school," my mother continued. "What's the name? I expect I'll start seeing it one of these years in those literary magazines.

"Grace Manning," I said. Saying the name. Just liked being able to say the name.

_"What did you do to him?" Charlotte demanded, looking at her mother that Sunday night, after her grandparents had left, after that encounter with Amber, after another breakfast without Dad, without the pancakes and eggs he'd make them on Sundays. Amber. The name still made her shake. She knew her father would not simply start something with another woman if her mother hadn't made him feel so unhappy. If she hadn't always been after him._

_Her mother cowered in the corner of the sofa, looking suddenly small, but not defenseless. A steely core Charlotte knew better than to try and bend._

_"I didn't do anything," her mother said, her voice shaking._

_"Dad wouldn't cheat on us – on you – if you hadn't driven him to it. You made him feel so, so inadequate -- "_

_At that her mother stood, no longer cowering, and Charlotte realized she herself had grown in the past six months; they now stood almost eye to eye. Her mother's eyes were wet, her lip trembled, but her mouth was set. The tears did not move Charlotte – there had been too many tears from her mother these past six months But it was the realization that that were no new tears coming, the dryness now behind those dark brown eyes, the only trait she seemed to have inherited from her graceful, fine-boned mother. She saw, perhaps for the first time in her life, that her mother had a strength, had strength, was strong. And, despite her newly realized height, she felt much smaller against her mother, against the years of her parents' marriage. A sudden awareness of the complexity of a marriage, of her parents' relationship, a complexity that went back deeper into years than she, at barely 14, could hope to comprehend. Fairness, justice, blame, who was right, who was righter, she, Charlotte, could judge, but could never really be certain. And at that moment, when she no longer felt certain, when she felt both much older and much younger, she reached for her mother as her mother reached for her, and they stood, in a locked embrace, neither moving, neither crying, neither speaking, letting a hug that had gone empty for too long, speak the words they could not say._

_Outside, the cold November rain slowed to a drizzle, stopped, The clouds drifted into mist, and the full moon reflected in the dark puddles._

"The ending needs work, though," my mother added.

"That's what I've been telling her," I said. "She's been working on it."


	7. Performance

Chapter 7: Performance

After listening to her songs, I started to daydream, cross that line. In my head.

I played that CD more often than was healthy, and wondered if she listened to the same songs. Imagining us both editing papers, working late, listening to the same music. That was part of how it started. I just liked to imagine what she was doing right then. Now she's working on the Shakespeare paper, now she's responding to the red ink I put on Draft 3. Now she's writing those cover letters to _Ploughshares_,_ The Atlantic Monthly_.

I had kept it light, all through the rest of the play rehearsals. But then the play came, and I found myself slipping back, judging her harshly, more strictly – I had come to expect so much from her, and realized, too, when she looked at me eagerly after that first night, waiting for my personal comment on her performance, no, not my comment, my praise. And I couldn't give it to her, not then. Because… she was less than perfect. Because I couldn't say to her, in all honesty, great job. Oh, she was _fine_, her performance was _nice_, most people would have been more than satisfied with it, and it certainly was the best performance in the play, as the school newspaper commented the next day.

But I got mean again. Had I set such high, high standards for her? When finally, after the second night, my deliberate silence forced her to ask me, because she couldn't not have my opinion. I told her, told her I didn't believe her. Tad was doing the best he could. But I knew her best could be so much better.

I knew I expected more from her, expected that that harsh speech would motivate her on some level, if it didn't reduce her to total despair. And I think I knew that despair was not Grace. A core of strength, a stubbornness, if you will, she willed. Not to fall. Not to fail. To live up to and glorify her name. Amazing Grace. And perhaps, a desire to please me. Her teacher.

And she did. She gave the performance of her life. I was humbled. Such raw honesty. Did I cause that? But more than the raw honesty, the pain she truly conveyed, was the ability to do so, the willingness to let that pain show to the world, because that was the pain Rosalind was feeling then, she who had invested so much for Orlando, with such an uncertain return.

I don't think I ever was that honest. Or not so much not honest, but that accepting of how I felt. I distance myself. Safety from pain, don't feel the depth of pain, but don't feel the full extent of any other emotion either. That a 16-year-old girl could express herself so, could move a 40-year-old cynical man to tears himself, myself. I was stunned, moved, touched, overcome. Captivated, captured, swept away.

I had to tell her, had to let her know, had to justify that coldness. Had to see, had to test, had to open a door to see if she would walk through. Had to let her know the door was open, regardless.

So selfish. But she had to know.

I couldn't help it.

_It was strange to be in this furnished apartment. Charlotte had thought that by now, six months had passed, she'd be used to it. In six months you establish a routine, and her routine was to come to this apartment after school on Wednesdays and Thursdays, even though her father wasn't always there.  But he made sure she and Bobby each had a room. "It's your second home," he told them. But Charlotte didn't want a second home. She wanted one home with two parents. She knew her father wanted to come back, was just waiting for the word from her mother. Thanksgiving he had to be there. They couldn't have Thanksgiving without Dad there to carve the turkey._

_She had come today, a Monday, not a day she usually came, to invite her father. And that was strange for her too, the idea that she had to _invite_ her father to come eat at his own house, and she felt another surge of anger at her mother. Her day consisted of these intermittent surges of anger, annoyance, frustration with her mother. It was her mother's midlife crisis causing this upheaval in their lives. She was so selfish. She had to have it right when Charlotte started high school, of course. Like, a totally new school wasn't confusing enough as it was._

_When Charlotte arrived at the apartment she heard music coming from inside. Not the jazz her father usually listened to, but kind of New Agey, piano music sounding like a waterfall. She turned the handle and found the door was unlocked. "Dad?" she called. The music continued, and she heard the sounds of puttering coming from the kitchen. But when she came into the kitchen, the person standing there was too short and definitely too female to be her father. She had spiked blond hair, bleached with dark roots, and a pierced nose. And large breasts accentuated by a tight blue navel-revealing T-shirt._

_She was shorter than Charlotte, though older. Though not significantly. "Who are you? Charlotte asked loudly over the music. The young woman looked up. "Oh!" she said. "You must be Charlotte! I thought you didn't come today." She wiped her hands on a dishtowel, then held out her right hand. Charlotte looked at it without touching, and the young woman retracted it. "I'm Amber. I guess you could say I'm you father's girlfriend."_

The cast party was at Grace's house. Second time there, her mother Lily distracted again with getting soda set out, plates, the business of having a house full of teenagers. Except for Grace. Grace wasn't there. Which made me realize my whole reason for being there, for bothering with this high-school cast party, was to see her. Though of course I was expected to be there, and they presented me with a director's chair, Jessie did, made a thank you speech without Grace, cheered themselves without Grace, and were all laughing with the relief of performances finished, the exhilaration that follows the end of the play, before the emptiness settles in. No one seemed to feel her absence. I felt her absence, wondered if perhaps I had been too unkind yesterday, that perhaps it was me she was avoiding.

While the kids laughed and played music and went over flubs and missed lines and clever ad-libs, I wondered into the kitchen. Opened the refrigerator and saw a bottle of opened red sitting there. Chilled red – not my favorite, but a cup of wine was suddenly very appealing right then. And right then, as I poured the wine into my empty soda cup, Grace came in. I felt caught off guard. I had had a speech prepared for her, but now I didn't know how to start.

She was wet – had obviously been walking in the rain this whole time. And I was just so, so happy to see her, had thought I wouldn't. But now I said, "Can you keep a secret?" Wanting to confess – what?

But Grace was distracted, and I had to push the door open. "I've…" I've what? Quickly I said, "I've helped myself to some of your parent's wine." Like, I'm a teenager, sneaking wine.

She laughed, softly, and said, "Oh."

"Don't tell anyone!" I cautioned in a big secret voice.

But she took me seriously, as she often does, said she didn't think her parents would mind.

Which made me serious. Enough with the silly wine talk. I took a breath, looked directly at Grace. "You know, you're incredible. You are an incredibly talented person."

"I am?" she looked surprised, pleased, to hear this coming from me.

Confessions. Showing a crack in my façade. "I myself am a fraud. But you are not. You are the real deal. And maybe I've been harsh on you," I had been harsh on her, this sweet, talented, anxious girl with so much going on, she needed me to make her think? She was hardly complacent. "But that's only because the world is harsh, Grace," like she hadn't found that out in the past few years? – "and I want you…" not to feel pain, to be happy,  to be… "to be ready for it," I said.

And Grace, beautiful Grace, said to me, "What do you mean? You're not a fraud."

Was it hiding my feelings for her, or having them in the first place that made me feel fraudulent? But I didn't want to delve into me. "Tonight you let everything inside you actually show. Which I believe is the only thing in the world worth doing," I said. The truth. "Although I've never been willing to do it myself." Right now was the closest I've come in a long while. I moved to sit on a tall kitchen stool. "So how did you do it? Do you know? I mean, what made tonight so different?" Again I remembered the choked up feeling I had as she delivered those lines, "There is no truth in him."

She didn't answer at first, perhaps not sure if I was truly asking, or being rhetorical. But I looked at her expectantly, and, after a pause, she looked at my eyes and said, "You. You made it different. What you said." I? My advice? It had to be more than that, but if that was how she felt, I'd take the praise. I smiled, gratefully, at her perhaps indulgence. "It doesn't have to be a secret," she added. The reason for her success? I was confused. "I mean, I don't think they'd mind. about the wine," she continued.

I looked at the cup, from which I'd taken a few small sips. "Maybe not," I said.

Grace walked over to where I sat. She looked at the wine, then looked up at me, and my attempt at feigning innocence, good intentions, was on shaky ground. I could feel my heart beating, loudly, surprised she couldn't hear it too. "Can I taste it?" she asked. I stood, still holding the cup, and she reached her hand for the cup, and for a moment our fingers touched, and I was speechless. Unable to move, held captive by a single fingertip.

"Oh great! You're still here!" Lily. Grace's mother, entering the kitchen in the whirlwind of activity that seems to surround her. Grace stepped back from me quickly, and I realized how close we had been standing. Lily hadn't noticed, and I immediately confessed to  purloining some wine. But Lily was distracted with the pride of Grace's performance, and thanked me for that. She turned to Grace and said, "You look flushed, sweetie," and felt her forehead. I wondered if I did as well, and Grace met my eyes for a brief second. Lily turned to open the refrigerator and said, "Wasn't Grace just, just so _real_ tonight?"

I looked past her, meeting Grace's eyes again. "Incredibly real," I said, to her. She looked down. I had opened the door wide, and she stepped through with grace. But now what? Lily carried a cake from the fridge to the counter, getting it ready to take in the other room. The kitchen door opened again, and a boy about 18 came in and immediately put an arm across Grace's shoulders. She ducked away as Lily said, "Hey where were you? We saved you a seat."

"I'm sorry," he said. And I realized this must be The Musician, and I felt a dark emotion rise up? Jealousy? Perhaps, but more anger at him for having hurt Grace, for having someone as incredible as Grace feel affection for him, and to have him take that affection so lightly, so for granted.  I felt repulsion toward him, almost, more so when I saw Grace leave the room, followed by Lily with the cake.

"Sorry I missed the play," he said to me, making conversation. "I heard it was good." He was supposed to have been at the play tonight. His absence – Grace must have used that pain tonight. Not my "a real actress would" criticism. And I felt a mixture of embarrassment, that my need to have helped her was so transparent, and hope, that my feelings were important enough that she gave me a less honest answer, but the one she figured I'd want to hear. I suddenly couldn't stand being in the kitchen with Eli any longer, and as he faltered over a small-talk answer to  my small-talk question, I left the kitchen and joined Grace and the other cast members in the living room.

Grace looked up as I came in, and our eyes met again. Each time she looked at me that way, a look of dawning understanding, of connection, my heart gave a small leap, my palms felt sweaty, and I thought I might need several bottles of wine so I could put the logical side of my brain to sleep and just enjoy my heart. Be graceful.

I realized, after, it was a sign of something, a shifting in my life, that I would go to a place I knew was so morally wrong, a place I would never before have considered traveling. Opened a door that should have remained locked. Was it myself, a need for change, using her to help make that change happen? Or was it she, Grace, that made a change necessary, essential, regardless of right or wrong?


	8. Postproduction

After a long hiatus… glad Fanfiction is back up and running!

Chapter 8: Postproduction 

The days after the end of the play, after that cast party, were a blur. Midterm papers, Christmas upon us moments after Thanksgiving. I spent the holiday in Boston at June and Sal's. Relatively balmy compared to St. Paul. Temperature even got as high as freezing some days. I'd brought a video of the last performance to show June, who was a set designer for a repertoire theater. We all watched it together once. This was something I always did, since I started directing plays at Sinclair. I'd tape the show each night, then offer copies for sale of the best night – it was a minor find-raiser for theatre productions. I always sent a copy to June, since she liked to see what I was doing.

I hadn't watched it, before then. It all came back to me, Grace's performance. "Wow, she's incredible, that Rosalind," June commented. I could just nod, agreeing, and resolved not to watch the tape again.

I got wrapped up in the Christmas preparations in a household with a 5-year-old girl and neighborhood parties and the challenges of roasting a goose and stuffing stockings. The time away from home, away from work, separated by thousands of miles, helped give me some perspective. I convinced myself that I had a momentary surge of feelings, an innocent crush on a promising student, leave it at that, crushes are passing things, it was part of turning 40, feeling my age, looking for youth, it was gone.

In over a decade of teaching, I _never_ was attracted to a student. I need to say that, to emphasize that. I was _not_ like Humbert, lusting after young girls, a serial worshipper of teenagers. It was only the one, and it was who she was and who I was at that time. At least I believed that, I prayed that. But I could never really be certain, could I? What if it was part of some midlife crisis, what if she wouldn't be the only one? How could I trust myself for sure, having crossed this uncrossable line? The answer is, I couldn't ever know for sure. I had to trust myself, but I also had to remove myself.

In January and February, with the limited daylit hours and wind-chilled temperatures dipping into the subzeros, I always feel like hibernating. Some renewed energy after being on vacation, but that was quickly replaced with cooped-up winter restlessness. Students have been attending school half the year now, bigger papers were due, more reading, but in class they alternated between being restless and inattentive and being half asleep and inattentive. Even in my advanced class, students were zoning out. Class discussions were like pulling teeth, and I found myself throwing out outrageous statements just to get some kind of reaction.

***

On Valentine's Day, Chris actually opted to call at a time when I was home. From weekly suppers to weekly phone messages, I had gotten used to our new routine, and didn't know quite what to say when I recognized her voice, live. For a moment I thought I could fake it and pretend to be the answering machine. Run and hide, denial.

"Gus? You there?"

"For a change, yes I am," I said, shortly. "What's up, Christine?"

"Gus! I miss you. Just because I'm engaged, doesn't mean we can't still be friends."

"Is that what we are?"

"Gus, we've known each other for 20 years. Yes."

She had a point. I enjoyed hanging out with Jerry and some of the other teachers, but Chris was the only one outside my family who had known me at all the stages of my adult life. The author and the teacher. Just as I knew her as both the artist and the gallery owner. "So what's with the lunchtime calls?" I said.

She paused now. "Okay. I guess I was trying to take credit for contact without really connecting. Except I want to. Look. Barry wants to meet you. I mean, like get a drink, hang out."

"You're sure about him now?" I asked. "You don't need to double check anything?" I added pointedly.

She laughed wryly. "No, I'm not going to jump you, August. How's Friday?"

***

Friday. Grace day. I looked forward to those lunch meetings more than I cared to admit. I needed to get out more. Short stories written, revised, rewritten, new ones. We didn't cover the short story as a form that much in class, and I began to suggest other authors, gave her a reading list. It was eclectic.

"Stephen King?" she asked, incredulously. "Roald Dahl, like the author of _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_?_"_

"You'd be surprised," I said. "Both are short story masters. Yes, King's genre is horror, but his short stories are tight and engaging. And Roald Dahl, long before he wrote children's books, wrote decidedly not children's stories, clever and with a twist."

"So I should write horror stories?"

"I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that it's a good idea to read a wide variety of short stories, if that's the format you're interested in writing. And yes, maybe even try writing horror, or about sports, or comedy – something entirely different from what you know."

"But I thought you're supposed to write what you know."

"If that were the case, think of all the stories that never would have been told. It's a place to start, but writing what you don't know is a place to explore."

In the coming weeks, she wrote stories on mutant squirrels, horse racing, a fantasy world called Shemesh, a parody on student proms. She also worked on revisions of "Voices and "What You Need to Know."

*****

_Sundays had once been special days. Family days. Dad didn't work Sundays, so he always made breakfast a big production. Brunch, really. Pancakes, usually three different kinds. Plain for Bobby, since he didn't like stuff in his, blueberry for Mom and Dad, and chocolate chip for Charlotte. With hot buttered maple syrup and sliced fresh fruit._

_Her mother had attempted, for the whole summer, had to give her credit for persistence, to make Sunday be the same. But it couldn't ever be. Aside from the fact that she couldn't cook nearly as well as Dad, the kitchen felt leaden and empty with Dad not there, reading "Dave Barry" from the Sunday magazine, dramatizing the comic pages, making them all laugh so hard Charlotte once splattered milk all over her pancakes, and her father, while pretending to admonish her to be more careful, got up and made her another batch._

_The last Sunday Charlotte had been there she knocked over the pitcher of syrup – her mother had to pour it into a special pitcher, she couldn't just use the bottle that had a cap on it like normal people. "Charlie! Can't you be more careful!" her mother snapped, rushing for paper towels, a sponge. _

_But now Charlotte avoided Sundays. She felt a pang about abandoning Bobby, but Bobby wasn't her problem right now. Let her mother deal with him. She just wanted out. She got up early and would go walking, weaving through the neighborhood streets for hours, stopping at a Starbuck's for coffee, sometimes heading to the lake, to Sondra's, to the library. Home by late afternoon, long after lunch._

*****

The days grew longer. No longer dark at 4:30. Jerry began production of the spring play, _The Crucible_. Grace was in that one, too, Elizabeth Proctor to Jessie's Abigail Williams. I found another extracurricular. The Gay-Straight Alliance. It was all June's fault. When I was visiting her, she asked me about it, if my school had one. I said, "I don't think so. I think they had one for a semester, it fizzled over the summer, and that was it."

"August, you _have_ to start one up."

"I _have_ to?

"My God, yes. Certainly would have saved me la lot of  misery when I was in high school."

"I always thought that was because you were the middle child."

"No, it was NOT because I was the middle child. It was because I was repressed. Anyway, I was fat."

"You weren't fat."

"Well, I thought I was. Anyway, you should do it, August. You'd be great. You know gay people up close and personal."

Coincidences. A few weeks after I got back, there was a notice in the teachers' lounge announcing a meeting about just that – renewing a Gay-Straight Alliance. Inadvertently I made an impassioned argument supporting the idea and ended up being nominated to be the faculty advisor. Nothing happened for another month, and then Mrs. Gonzales told me the funding was coming through, I should announce the first meeting the next week. Location to be determined.

*****

I gave Grace a ride in my car a total of four times. I remember each once distinctly, for different reasons. I had been doing well up until the Gay-Straight Alliance. Keeping my distance, secretly looking forward to seeing her each day, now I admit it to myself, then I did not. Would not.

That first car ride. Where she was struggling to appear older, to separate herself from her younger sister, from her peers. From Jessie. She really couldn't mention her stepsister without an undercurrent of pain poking through, and I got the sense there wasn't anyone she could talk to about it. When she said, "My mom just lets me drive her car to school once in a while, and of course, drive Jessie places," it immediately conjured up that odd conversation we'd had at tryouts. I think she remembered it as well, concluding with a  forced flip tone, "She's just the kind of person that people are always worried that she has a ride home, you know. And I guess I'm just the kind of person that people just assume…can walk." But it touched me. And even I can get a hint some times, so of course I offered her a ride. I mean, anyone would have.

We got in the car and our hands bumped as we each strapped in. I had to restrain myself from jumping back too blatantly. It's not that I hadn't been alone with Grace since that night I both wanted to forget and wanted to remember and run through my mind and had never referred to. Especially that whispered feel of a finger on fingers. I kept it very professional each week when we would meet to discuss her writing.

But in the car, this was different. Just as it was different in Grace's kitchen. A border blurred. No longer the safey of the classroom. Her kitchen – home turf. My car, my personal not professional space. And me wanting to imagine we were driving somewhere together, like to dinner maybe, or a movie. A date. She was 16. I was 40.

I concentrated on driving. Grace was quiet, and looked through the tapes I had piled in a box between the seats. "Hey!" she said. "You have _Ego, Opinion, Art & Commerce_. Goo Goo Dolls."

I had forgotten I had that in the car. I'd been listening to it on the drive to school. "Yes, well," I began, my eyes glancing at her, then back at the road. "That CD you made me… kind of intrigued me. I liked that song "All Eyes on Me," so I bought the album."

"There's hope for you yet," Grace laughed. "Musically, I mean. Can we play it?"

I reached over to take the tape from her and put it in when, out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of orange in the street. I slammed on the brakes and the tape went flying out of Grace's hand and landed on the dashboard. An orange tabby sauntered across the road, reached the curb, turned, and sat on the grass, watching me.

"Sorry about that," I said. "There was a cat…" I pointed.

She looked. "Oh that cat. I see him every day on the way to school. I think he's homeless."

"I've seen him too. He's probably just hungry. Like most cats."

I released the brakes and drove carefully the remaining blocks to Grace's house. She thanked me for the ride, then turned and said,  "Oh, wait! What I was trying to say before… I just think that if you had the meeting somewhere…besides school, like say, at your house, I think it would be less embarrassing for some people…to join."

I think that was when things began to change, really, but I suppose there are many moments along the way that I can pinpoint and say, here, here, here's where things changed. She seemed gung ho about the GSA, and I wondered if there was something personal to her enthusiasm, but ruled it out quickly. After knowing June and Sal and all their friends, I knew lesbians. And Grace was no lesbian.

At my house? I thought. "At my house?" I said.

"Yeah, Teachers do stuff like that all the time. Well, not all the time. But Mr. Walsh had the film festival at his house last year."

I wasn't sure. But I liked the idea of Grace being in my house. But that was another inadmissible thought. But why not? I mean, she had a good point, it wasn't about me, it was about kids dealing with a difficult issue and making it easier for them. I put up flyers with my address the next day.


	9. Lines

I was curious about Dimitri's conversation with the gender-neutrally named Chris in the middle of the Gay/Straight Alliance episode. We heard his side, and now I've imagined hers. 

Chapter 9: Lines 

At my house. Caught. Fifteen minutes early. People shouldn't be 15 minutes early. I was shaving, T-shirt, bathrobe, when I heard the doorbell. Still half lathered, I ran to the door, feeling like a housewife caught in curlers and a mud mask. We could have met in any classroom, the cafeteria, the auditorium. My house, my space. Why did I listen to her? Because she asked.

Grace arrived with Jessie, who looked reluctant to be there. I was annoyed with Grace for catching me off guard. I had wanted to be more settled before people came. I led the stepsisters to the living room then ran back upstairs to finish shaving, my sense of control thrown off.

I looked in the mirror. I felt… embarrassed to be seen off-guard, unprofessional, by Grace. Blurring that boundary again. I winced – a nick, old blades, trying to shave too quickly. I blotted the blood with a bit of tissue. Grace in my kitchen made me think of me in her kitchen, waiting for her, all those months ago. Sipping wine, feeling giddy from her performance. She was not Rosalind, I was not Orlando. She was Grace, I was Mr. Dimitri. The bleeding had stopped; I rinsed my face. I changed, went downstairs. To find Grace looking at _Accidentally on Purpose_. "You're a real poet!" She exclaimed admiringly. "When did you publish these?"

I reached for the book, pulled; she didn't want to let go. "Several lifetimes ago," I replied. Having successfully wrested the book away from Grace, I returned it to its place on the shelf.

"Well, can I look at them?" she asked.

Of course I wanted her to read my book, my books, to know about that part of my life. I had been reading her writing for all these months, advising her on how to end a story, develop characters, improve dialogue. I wanted her to know I was somehow real, had been part of the published written world, had received that official recognition.

But I wasn't a writer any more, was I? "There not really worth looking at," I said dismissively.

And then the meeting was underway, with Grace asserting the importance of a dance, of a place where people could be themselves. Laughing at my jokes, with me. Volunteering to hammer out a proposal for a dance. With me. I admired her perseverance; her enthusiasm would be helpful to the kids who really needed it. June would be proud.

There had been a good turnout; perhaps Grace was right about having it at my house. I wasn't involved with the previous attempt at an alliance, but apparently it had been kept quiet enough that the school could take credit for trying without actually having to do anything.

Kids began to leave, and I looked for the memo the school board had issued regarding a dance, and found Grace, the last one there, in the kitchen doing dishes. She was… getting too close to where  I lived, and I felt I was losing control over the distance I needed to maintain, over the lines I was trying to keep clear. I went to take the glass she was washing, and she brought up my poems again.

"So," she began. "I didn't know you wrote poetry." I looked at her quickly and looked away. She added, unencouraged but undaunted. "I mean, there's obviously a lot I don't know about you."

She liked me. I realized it then, for certain. Not just me projecting my feelings. I knew the signs. I'd seen them with Alexa back in October, and with Alexa I had done what I knew needed to be done. Kept my distance. I didn't want to keep a distance with Grace. I couldn't stop advising her on her writing, not now. But I had to do something. I couldn't be participating in a let's-get-to-know-each-other-better conversation. Grace continued, "Like with the Gay-Straight Alliance…" the phone rang. I put down the dish towel and went to answer it. "I didn't know you cared about that," I heard her say behind me.

Saved by the bell. Because what could I say? I know what I should have said. Stepped back then, You need to leave Grace, can't get to know you, you can't get to know me, something, anything. Been cold, distant, removed. And specific. I'm your teacher, can't get personal. Instead I took refuge in the phone call, which turned out to be from Chris.

"Oh hi, Chris!" I said with forced joviality. Grace would hear me chatting up a friend, hear the name, would leave, see I am part of my grown up world that has nothing to do with her.

"Hey Gus! Guess who's on the Chicago Gallery tour!"

"Shut _up_!" I said – glad she'd finally heard. Wanting to immerse myself in this conversation, aware of Grace drying that last glass.

"So… whatcha doing?" Chris asked, and I knew she had something on her mind.

"Nothin'… nothin'…What are you up to?" I said, waiting to hear the real purpose of her call. Noticing Grace folding the dish towel.

"You busy right now?" she asked.

"No, no, no… Just doing some dishes." Grace quietly put the towel on my briefcase and indicated she was going to get her bag. I continued to be immersed in this conversation, aware of the smell of her shampoo as she walked past me, of the way the dim kitchen lights caught the red highlights of her hair, of the necessity, for me, of being rude, of establishing my own separate life.

"How about tomorrow night?" Chris continued. "You want to go on a double date with Barry and me? His sister's in town."

"You're kidding." Not what I expected. I hadn't even met Barry yet, I mean, as Chris's official fiancé.

"I'm not kidding. Her name is Jazmynne. Seriously. With a Z and a YNNE. That's not how you usually spell it --"

"I know." Could I double date with Chris? 

"Of course you do. But she still seems really nice, and it could be fun. She's older than Barry, too – 36, I think. An easier way for you to meet Barry than just the three of us. I thought that might be weird."

"That's what I thought," I said, though I was prepared to do it, get it over with. Though meeting him with his sister, double dating, was not really any less weird. It was just awkward because of that last time we saw each other. But it didn't have to be. We went too far back to let it be.

"Anyway, it's time you got out! On a date! Why not? It's just one night – she lives in Cleveland, though she might move. And we haven't seen each other in too long!"

"True… but – very true." We did have fun together, and would still even with Barry. And perhaps even with this Jazmynne. I should go. I heard Grace moving in the other room. I would go out with someone my age, a grownup. That's probably why I had been focusing too much on Grace – no distraction of a grownup relationship. I told myself.

"Who knows? Maybe we'll end up having a double wedding?" Chris laughed.

"Well," I forced a laugh too, "I wouldn't go _that_ far…"

Grace came out of the living room with her backpack. "Good night," she said quietly, and I suddenly felt bad for rudely carrying on a phone conversation. It's not what I would have done to a friend.

But Grace couldn't be such a friend. She walked to the door, and I lowered the receiver. "Good night," I answered, then added, "Listen, I'll try and locate that memo."

"Oh… okay," Grace said, and was gone.

Chris was still talking. "So, tomorrow okay for you? I'll swing by, and then Barry and Jazmynne can meet us, maybe at your place? Then we can all go out for dinner?"

I watched Grace walk through the double set of doors, then her image was blocked by the reflection of the kitchen against the night glass. I said, "Tomorrow… I think we'll definitely have to do that."

"Okay then. Just casual, though. Nothing fancy. Take it easy." She knew I sometimes went overboard preparing hors d'oeuvres to go with the wine. Had no desire to do that this time, though.

"Absolutely. That's what I'm saying."

"All this wedding stuff actually is making me a little nervous," she confessed. "Jazmynne came here so we could shop for wedding dresses together. Me and wedding dresses! I never thought I'd be even thinking about them."

"I know," I said, waiting for her to realize the irony of that statement.

"Right," she said. "Of course. You okay with all this?"

"I really am, Chris," I said, and I really was. I was happy for her, because she did seem happy. I hoped she was. To find someone you think you can spend the rest of your life with… how lucky is that? "So, why don't you all come by for some wine beforehand,  and then we can go to Blind Faith."

"You remembered Barry's a vegetarian."

"I remember everything you tell me, Chris. See you tomorrow." I hung up the phone, hearing the sound of Grace's car engine in the distance, driving away from my house.


	10. After Hours

Chapter 10: After Hours 

If I had thought my dismissive attitude toward Grace at the end of the GSA meeting would put her off, I was mistaken. In class the next day, Grace positively glowed with excitement. As she came into the room, and several times during class, I noticed she gave me what seemed like significant _looks. Like she knew something that she expected me to know too, to understand, and I wasn't quite sure I was on the right wavelength. She interrupted my lecture on Donne to rave about the poems of another poet, nameless, whom she had just read, whose poetry, she said, was much more effective than Donne's. "It made you realize how you felt about everything," she said._

This passion was exactly the kind of reaction a poet might hope to get from a reader, and I didn't quite know how to respond to what she said – thank her, but bring the subject back to Donne, ask her for a more specific example comparing this poet to Donne, discuss expectations of poetry through the ages -- when, again, I was saved by the bell, which gave me a moment to gather my thoughts, try to regain my control, my footing after she interrupted the flow I had planned for the class. "That was an interesting point you made," I said, finally, amidst the confusion of students packing up, moving about, leaving.

She looked at me, grinning securely as she put her books into her backpack.  "Well, I guess I just have strong feelings," she said, "about poetry."

She smiled, and I realized, when she felt passionate and spoke with conviction, it was as she was when she played Rosalind, when she played Elizabeth Proctor in _The Crucible; she was beautiful. Disturbingly so, the purity of her emotion, and I could only mutter, "We'll continue this some other time," as she finished loading her backpack._

But when I saw her express this passion again, the circumstances were different, and I could not savor it, could not respond to it, could not, really, accept it. Fraud, again, on so many levels.

*****  
  


I hadn't had a date in six months, and the last one had a been a dismal failure resulting from a setup Jerry attempted. I thought briefly of Grace's enthusiasm that afternoon, of the way her eyes glowed as she spoke, then closed my eyes and shook my head to shake the image from my mind. Grownups, August, I told myself. Teacher. Student.

Chris had said to keep it simple, so I didn't get into making hors d'oeuvres I sometimes do. But I couldn't resist getting some interesting cheeses from Le Fromagerie, and opening a bottle of good Merlot. I was unwrapping the cheeses, a creamy, pungent Chabichou and a pleasant, nutty aged Gouda, when Chris knocked on the back door.

Chris looked good. She was dressed up in what I called her gallery chic. When we were together, dressing up meant a clean pair of jeans and a shirt with no paint splatters. But since she shifted from creating art to selling it, Chris's wardrobe went through a transformation. Still, I wasn't sure what to make of her transparent blouse, her black brassiere clearly visible underneath. "Your shirt's certainly not for the timid," I commented, and she curtseyed.

"I never was timid, was I, Gus?"

"No, not you. You look good, Chris. Sexy. Happiness becomes you."

"And you, my dear August, look tired. Pour me some wine and update me on your life. We have a good 30 minutes before Barry and Jazmynne arrive."

I poured two glasses and we carried them into the living room.. Chris went over to the CD collection. "Got some new show tunes, I see. _The Producers?"_

"It's fantastic. Even if you don't like musicals. I saw it here and in New York."

"What's this one?" She held up the CD Grace had made me.

"Oh, a student made that for me," I said, happy to be talking about Grace. "Grace. She's one of those great students – has a lot of promise as a writer. And an activist too -- she's been a strong advocate for the Gay/Straight Alliance. I think it helps kids when they see a straight girl excited about something that's more likely to brand her than benefit her."

Chris read the label. "Goo Goo Dolls? Garbage? Joe Jackson? Not exactly your style, is it?"

"I'm broadening my horizons, Chris. Next thing you know I'll be listening to your Stingmusic."

"Now _that's_ quality." She lifted her glass. "Now how about a toast?"

I lifted mine. "To friendship," I said.

She smiled a distant smile, then came back and said, "To love." We clinked glasses and sipped our wine. I enjoyed the dry, full flavor, the slight warmth as I swallowed.

"Barry's show's going really well," she said. "I think it's why we made the gallery tour."

"I'll have to come see it," I said. "Now tell me more about this Jazmynne." 

"Well, let's see. She's an accountant, has her own business --" Just then, we heard a knock on the back door. "Why don't you answer that and see for yourself?" Chris said.

I felt nervous, suddenly, shy, not sure what I expected out of the evening, ready for the necessary small talk of introductions. I headed into the kitchen and went to the door, But there weren't two strangers standing there, just one familiar face. Grace.

Why was she here? Mechanically, I slid open the glass door. Cold evening air swirled into the room. "Hey!" she said, still wearing her glowing smile of class.

I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "What, what are you --" I stammered.

"I was just," she motioned her head outside, then rubbed her hands together, and stepped past me into the kitchen, saying, "God, it's really cold!"

I tried to speak, but was too shaken. Chris here, Grace here, a date coming, it didn't have to be weird, it didn't have to be awkward, it was me that was making it so. Grace under pressure, not my forte, apparently. Automatically, I shut the door as Grace continued, "I was just kind of… stuck in the neighborhood for a while" – I remembered her mentioning Jessie's mother being in the hospital, not far from my house, the rides she had to give her there – "And there's something I wanted to tell you."

She had to stop talking. I knew whatever she was going to say, it was not going to be an urgent epiphany about Donne's poetry, a pressing inspiration for the GSA dance. It was not something I wanted to hear at this moment, now, with Chris in the other room. I started saying, "And that's fine, but you see the thing is --"

But she interrupted me. Again. "No, Please!" I opened my mouth to continue, but she held up her hands, taking a deep breath. "Please, just… See, in your car the other day I just felt like there was this…" I realized I'd been holding my glass of wine all this time, and I placed it on the counter, wanting to stop those words issuing from her mouth, unable to stop them, mesmerized like an animal on the road at night, staring into the headlights that would run him down. "… connection, that I couldn't put into words, and then you put it into words. You did it for me." I knew I should be stopping her now, stopping what was going to be the confession, the admission I knew deep down I wanted to hear, but the words that shouldn't be said, not here, not now. But I remained silent still, and Grace continued, "Look, I did something which I obviously shouldn't have done, okay, but I'm glad I did it, because now I know… that I'm not alone." Her eyes shone as she spoke, and her voice broke slightly on the last word. She moved around the counter, toward me, and I remained frozen, unable to speak still, able only to watch her, terrified, as she stood less than two feet from me. "And that is such an amazing thing… to know. And—" 

"August?" Chris's voice moving from the living room to the kitchen as she appeared next to me, snapping me into reality. If this were a normal situation, I should have no nervousness, detachment should be easy. But I wasn't detached, and I couldn't act easy. Grace looked mortified, slapped, the words she had yet to say evaporated. My voice trembled as I laughed nervously and said, "Ah, Chris… Chris, you, you, this is Grace, one of my students. Grace, this is… my friend, Christine Kim." 

Grace attempted to smile, with her mouth, though her eyes remained shocked. I realized I should use that, use Chris to close the door I had opened for Grace, to stop any more feelings from growing. I put a hand on Chris's shoulder and said to her, "Grace is one of my most enthusiastic students. She offered to, to chair the committee for the Gay/Straight Alliance dance."

"Oh, right, you were telling me," Chris said, looking at Grace, smiling.

"Yeah, yeah. Oh -- the, the presentation, it's tomorrow, isn't it?" Suddenly it came to me, I had something to justify her presence to Chris, who I knew would be questioning me later, and I didn't want to discuss anything. Didn't want to lie. "Did I ever give you that memo?" I asked Grace.

Grace looked at me blankly for a second before her eyes widened with recognition. "No," she said, sounding relieved that I had given her an excuse to be here.

"Hold, hold on. I think it's in my briefcase." I left the kitchen, all I could do not to run from the room, panicking, not thinking I could hold up a front of normalcy another moment. I stood outside the door, catching my breath, hearing Chris's good-natured attempt to make conversation with Grace.

This is what it would be like, I realized, if I were to let this continue, to develop a relationship with Grace beyond teacher-student. The fear of being caught, the professional and legal, not to mention personal, repercussions.

"Do you call him August or Mr. Dimitri?" I heard Chris say. I swallowed, there in the living room, as I heard Grace's muffled response: "Mr. Dimitri."

There are many teachers, Jerry included, who introduce themselves to students by their first name, rather than the titled surname that was the standard when I was in high school. But I've always looked younger than I am, so I found I was able to maintain a higher level of professionalism – both in my attitude toward students and theirs toward me, if I used my surname with Mr.

I didn't want to overhear any more of the conversation, and I moved away from the doorway, found the memo in my briefcase. Turning, I passed the shelf where Grace had seen my book. But it wasn't there. Of course – it seemed obvious now. The looks, the excitement, "this other person" whose poems meant so much to Grace. Me. Doesn't even mean they were any good, but they spoke to her because I spoke to her. Fifteen years after I wrote them.

Why didn't I just loan it to her when she asked? Her excitement at knowing I was a published author made me reticent. I was afraid for her to know that part of me because I wanted her to know that part of me. It would be like she was knowing a younger me, it would be like I wasn't 25 years older than she. Twenty-three-and-a-half, to be precise.

I had gained no clarity, and no calm, by leaving the kitchen. I had to go back in, give Grace the memo, go through teacherly motions. But inside I was still reeling from her uninvited visit, from her declaration, and even, to be honest, from her reaction to my poems, the reaction every poet hopes for, secretly if not openly. The glow in the eyes of a fan, an admirer who I admired. If Chris hadn't been here? But Chris was here. Fortunately, I told myself.

I took a deep breath, went back to the kitchen. "Found it!" I said, too loudly. Grace was already by the door. I handed her the memo, which she took without comment. Still too loud, for Chris's benefit? For mine, say it and make it so? I added, "Hey, try to remember these things during school hours next time, okay?" She looked at me, and the hurt, the sense of betrayal in her eyes was palpable. But it was for her good, as well as mine. Taking things further would not do her good, my selfishness, I told myself. In a softer voice, I added, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Without saying anything, she turned and left, and I heard Chris call behind me, "Nice meeting you, Grace," but Grace was gone.

I turned back to the kitchen, shut the door. Saw my wine glass over by the cheese and walked to it, sipped long. "Looks like you have an admirer," Chris commented.

*****

_Charlotte noticed a heart-shaped pendant dangling from a chain Amber wore around her neck. Amber saw Charlotte's gaze and fingered the silver wire, smiling down at it. "Pretty, isn't it?" she asked. Charlotte murmured what she thought sounded like an affirmation. "Your dad gave it to me for Valentine's Day. He can be such a sweetie. So. Are you staying for supper?"_

_Valentine's Day? Charlotte froze. Her parents had separated in May. What was her father doing giving hearts to bimbos three months before that? Suddenly, the thought of her father sharing their table at Thanksgiving seemed hopelessly naive. She felt stupid, bitter, angry, deceived. And respectful, a new respect for her mother, an appreciation for a strength she never suspected existed in her mother's prom-girl body. She looked at Amber's young, grinning face and felt pity, mixed again with anger. She said, simply, "Dinner? No… I just wanted to tell my Dad something, but I'll tell him another time. Happy Thanksgiving."_

_She left, and walked,walked,  feeling the cold November wind whip through her, letting her body match the coldness in her heart, till heart and flesh and mind felt equally numb._


	11. Poetic License

Chapter 11: Poetic License 

Covering up, offering her papers when she came by to visit like that in front of Chris. What was that? That was like, it turned Grace into something to cover up, it turned her into something to hide. It turned me into someone dishonest, I wasn't being honest with myself. What kind of relationship is it where you have to hide, where you have to… to lie. Grace doesn't deserve something like that. But it's been so long since, since I felt a connection. Grace said she felt a connection. I felt a connection.

I shouldn't be feeling delighted that she loved my poems as if I had written them for her, as if I were her age, wondering does she like me, does she does she?

I enjoyed college so much more than high school, so instantly more than high school. And Grace hasn't had that yet. She has another year of high school left. I couldn't possibly be thinking about her on any level of reality. Because if I cared for her – and I cared for her – then I could not let this go anywhere.

****

"You think so?" I said. I picked up the platter of cheese and started to carry it into the living room. Couldn't meet Chris's eyes. Couldn't betray Grace that way. I, who so admired Grace's honesty, who insisted she say truth. I had once told her to say the thing she was most afraid to say to the person she was most afraid to say it to. But had I ever done that? She had once, then; then it had been the Musician. But now she had again, and my response was virtually to spit in her face. Cover-up? Because that's what it felt like I was doing, motions for the benefit of an observer, and Chris knew me too well for lies, for half-truths. She followed me into the living room carrying the bottle of wine.

"Seriously? She comes by your house? Obviously you weren't expecting her…"

"No, I wasn't." I looked over at the shelf, at the empty space that replaced my book. "Grace is… independent. Sensitive, but headstrong. Good skills for a writer."

"August?"

I looked up from my wine.

"August – you're not seriously harboring any feelings toward her, are you?"

I took too long to answer. She said, "August. This is not the way to have a mid-life crisis. You know that."

I knew it. I looked at her. And then the words just came, because I didn't want to discuss Grace with Chris, didn't want how I felt or should feel to be judged by anyone, I could contain it, control it, keep it in my heart and leave it there. I looked at her directly and said, "No Chris, I am not seriously harboring any feelings toward Grace. She's a great student – the kind any teacher would want. That's it."

"That's it?" She sounded dubious but ready to be convinced. The front doorbell rang.

"That's really it. And _that better be them, because they are now actually 15 minutes late, and I'll have to call the restaurant and change our reservation." I stood._

*****

Three glasses of red and a glass of ice water for Jazmynne. "Oh, I only drink white wine, or water," she said when I'd offered the bottle. Barry and Chris sat closely on the sofa, Chris nestled against him, looking at home. He had dark, Mediterranean good looks, curly black hair, slightly long, befitting the image of an artist. By contrast, Jazmynne's hair was also curly, but streaked with carefully applied frosted bits of blond amidst her dark curls. She was trim and fit, and wore a tight-fitting fuchsia shirt with shiny black pants. She was striking, but the effect, to me, was too studied, harsh. I lifted my wine glass. "To Barry and Chris," I said. "To many years of continued happiness."

"Let's not rush things too much," Jazmynne said. "How about, to a smooth wedding."

"I'll take both," Barry said, looking quizzically at his sister.

We clinked glasses and drank. "Have some cheese," I offered. "They had a nice Chabichou and aged Gouda at Le Fromagerie that go well with wine – and ice water."

Jazmynne didn't smile. "I don't eat dairy," she said.

"Oh. I'm sorry – are you allergic, or whatsit – lactose --"

"Intolerant? No, no. I just get so bloated from eating dairy products, and if you knew how they milked cows, really, you wouldn't want to eat any dairy products either."

Actually, I did know how "they" milked cows. I also knew what certain political groups with agendas claimed about milking cows,  but I had spent several summers working on a large dairy farm. Not wanting to start the evening too antagonistically, I said, simply, as I cut myself a slice of the Gouda and placed it on a cracker, "I probably don't want to know, then, because I like cheese too much. Does this mean you're vegan?"

"Vegan? You mean vegetarian?" Jazmynne laughed. "Oh, no. not at all. According to my chiropractor, you cannot be healthy on a vegetarian diet. Only twelfth-generation vegetarians can actually be healthy. It's essential to have some kind of animal protein at every meal – even breakfast."

I glanced at Chris, who shrugged slightly. Barry was a vegetarian. Was this some weird sibling thing?

"I don't know, Jaz," Barry interjected. "I mean, I used to like a nice steak for dinner as much as the next guy. But animal protein at breakfast? Since I went veggie five years ago, I actually feel healthier."

"Short-term solution," Jazmynne said dismissively. She looked around, taking in my walls of  books. "Wow. You must like to read."

"Well, I am an English teacher," I said. "Gotta know my subject."

Jazmynne glanced at a stack of books I had left on a side table, various collections of short stories I was going over to recommend for inspiration to my creative writers. She picked up a collection, _Twenty Under Thirty, contemporary stories by writers only a few years older than my students. "I never could get into short stories," she said. "Or fiction, really. What's the point if it's not true?"_

"So what do you read?" Chris asked.

"She doesn't," Barry said.

"I do," Jazmynne retorted. "Factual stuff. _Wall Street Journal, __The Economist."_

"Quoth the CPA," said her brother. "I'm obviously the artistic one in the family," he said to me.

"Well someone had to be practical." She returned the book to the table.

"What about poetry?" Chris asked, winking at me.

"Poetry?" Jazmynne gave a hollow laugh. "I just don't see the point. Poems are always obscure, hard to understand, and don't really do anything in terms of affecting humanity or anything."

I had to say, "Even Shakespeare?"

"Well especially Shakespeare. I mean, the guy died like, what, 500 years ago, his plays are impossible to understand, and not particularly original."

What was there to say, other than, "Shall we go to dinner, then?" I remembered I'd made reservations at a vegetarian restaurant. I could change it, I thought, but something about Jazmynne made me feel less than accommodating.

At least the restaurant had eggs, so Jazmynne acquiesced to stay. But the time there went no better than it had in my house. Over the course of the evening, I learned more than I ever wanted to know about the accounting and financial planning businesses, and Jazmynne learned absolutely nothing about me, because she never asked me a single question about myself.

That night, I dreamt of Grace. I dreamt that I woke up and she was lying next to me in bed, but it wasn't the me now, it was the me then, it was a 17-year-old me. I was the same age as Grace. I wasn't in my bed now, I was in my bed in my parents' house in Minneapolis, and she looked at me and she smiled and said, "I wondered when you were going to get here."

And then I woke up alone, in my grown-up bed, a 40-year-old man, yearning for a not-quite-17-year-old girl. Not the way I wanted to go at all. Not what I needed in my life, not part of the plan. But there was a poem that came to me, just some fragments of words, and I jotted them down.__

_Dawn breaks  
heart wakes  
twenty stories reflecting silver slivers rose of sun.  
Day has begun  
again._


	12. Crossroads

**Chapter 12: Crossroads**

No smiles from Grace in real life the next day. I'd hoped to talk to her to say, what? Sorry? But she slipped into her seat at the last moment, and spent the entire class making notes or doodling in her journal. She did not look up when I asked questions, she did not follow; no one seemed to be paying attention that day. Finally, when there was no response to a question I threw out about preferred Donne poems, I called on her by name. "Grace," I said, "Which would you choose?" She gave me an accusing, angry look that chilled me, pierced me, and then the bell rang. With an air of triumph, she quickly packed her bags and would have been out of the classroom before I reached her desk if Katie Singer hadn't stopped to ask her something.

I used the chance to remind her of the meeting we had that afternoon with Mrs. Gonzales, had been hoping to use that to transition into a small discussion of what happened, but Katie lingered, and Grace was perfunctorily agreed to meet after eighth period.

Her plea for a Gay/Straight Alliance dance was well presented and convincing; Mrs. Gonzales was obviously impressed. But Grace breezed out of that classroom quickly afterward, ignoring my call, "Grace," as she disappeared down the hall, leaving me standing, alone.

I don't think I fully appreciated, until then, the role Grace had come to play in my life. Would she no longer participate in class, would she no longer want to discuss her writing with me? I couldn't let matters hang as they were, with implications and misunderstandings and cloudy impressions. But what could I do? Call her up? Tell her to stay after school?

While I was putting papers together back in my classroom, getting ready to leave, Mrs. Gonzales stopped by. "August!" she said. "I'm glad you're still here. You can let the Gay/Straight Alliance know the dance has received a green light. Grace Manning really gave quite a presentation, and the board approved the funds."

I was pleased, glad for gay students, glad the school was doing the right thing. I wondered, though, if Grace would even care at this point. It had become obvious to me that she was active in this group not for strong beliefs in the necessity of making high-school life easier for gay students, but for being closer to me. Working with me, a role I was happy to have her play.

As I got into my car, I saw Grace heading out of the parking lot by the buses. Without thinking, I drove to where she was and pulled up beside her. She looked at me through the windshield, her eyes forlorn but resigned. She got in the car. We rode silently. I knew I needed to initiate the conversation, but could not think how until I had pulled up in front of her house.

We both sat there. She made no effort to get out of the car. I cleared my throat and began,  "Thank you for doing such a great job today. You were very persuasive."

Staring straight ahead, she muttered, "I don't even know what I said."

Still trying to, I don't know, flatter her, extend an olive branch, beat around the bush? I continued, "Well, trust me. Thanks to you the Gay/Straight Alliance will get the funding to have that dance."

Grace, on the other hand, went for honesty. She turned and looked at me directly. "I don't care about the stupid dance. I don't care about the Gay/Straight Alliance."

Now I looked away, looked down, said softly, "I know you don't."

I struggled with what to say next when Grace said, her voice fading to a whisper, her eyes turned away," What else do you know?"

I took a breath and faced her, words unplanned came tumbling out, "I know you took my book." Her face froze. "It was stupid of me not to just let you borrow it. The thing is, Grace, we're not friends."

Her eyes full, shining, she said, bravely, "I know that."

"I mean, you _can't just drop by my house like that."_

She nodded, as if I were setting rules to a game she wanted to play, and if she would agree willingly, we could keep playing, "I know," she promised.

And then all I wanted came out as what could not be between us. "If circumstances were different, I'd like nothing more than to be your friend. I'd _want you to drop by my house. I'd lend you my book of poems I wrote when I was in my twenties which I'm now embarrassed by. I'd want you to call me August and not Mr. Dimitri and we would sit and talk for hours, but we __can't do that. We. Can't. Be. Friends." There I'd said what needed to be said, hadn't I?_

Her voice breaking, eyes starting to spill, she wiped them with her fingers and said, pleadingly, "I know, I know. Just stop saying it. Please." I nodded, said no more. Still, she sat in the car, neither of us made a move for her to get out. And then she said, "So, that was your girlfriend last night?"

I looked at her, annoyed, emphasized, "And you _shouldn't be asking me questions like that!"_

Her voice broke, her breath caught, and she turned away fully, so I wouldn't see her crying. I could have left things that way, let her believe Chris was my girlfriend. It would mean no more connection, likely no more rapport – though we had gone beyond simple classroom rapport, hadn't we? But if I let her believe what she thought now, nothing more that shouldn't happen between us would happen. That would be it. But her pain was palpable, and the need for honesty with Grace of all people was essential to me, even if there was selfishness involved. But how to explain exactly what Chris was, or had been to me? In a soft voice, I said, "She was my girlfriend, a long time ago…" When? Explain that we lived together until four years ago, children, marriage, not, the odd, rather adult "arrangement" we had until her engagement.... For now, I kept it simple; if there ever was a later, I could tell her the whole story. I continued, "…in college. Now we're just... friends." I smiled at the use of that word, the word I had just denied Grace.

And now she looked at me, tears gone, sniffed, and said, "Oh," looking me directly in the eyes.

And now I looked back, and could not look away, gazing at her face, her lips, her soft lips, her dark eyes, deep eyes, lonely, seeking, beautiful eyes.… And now Grace's eyes flickered to my lips, which felt suddenly full and tingling, back to my eyes again, and a kiss suddenly seemed much more important than anything I had said or was going to say, would say so much more, so precisely. Eyes still locked with hers, instead I said, "You'd better get out of the car now."

Not moving her head, not shifting her gaze, barely moving her lips, Grace said, "Why?"

And I had no answer, could not answer, because that other, more important answer seemed inevitable, as my head seemed drawn to her, and hers to me in an imperceptible, eternal, essential dance, inevitable as rain until a knock on Grace's window made us both jump, and the gaze was broken and it was Lily, Grace's mother, smiling as I quickly pressed the button and rolled the window down. "Hi, Mr. Dimitri!" she exclaimed cheerfully. Grace quickly gathered her belongings together.

I tried to overcome my discomfort, reminded, oddly, of how I had felt when Grace arrived at my house the night before, caught again, as tongue-tied now as I was then. My God, her mother. No explanation was needed, yet I felt compelled to say, "I was just…" What, about to kiss your underage daughter, with whom I am falling in love? Not really… I tried, "It was cold out, and --"

Lily, who seemed genuinely happy to see me with Grace, interrupted, saying, "Oh, I know! Thanks you so _much! Grace, would you give me a hand with the groceries?"_

Grace immediately answered in the affirmative, getting out of the car (no problem with the door this time), with one half-second inscrutable glance back at me. Mother and daughter were gone, and I rolled up the window. Nothing accomplished here for the good, disgusted with myself, with how I had let things turn. On the plus side, Grace was happy. She knew what I had known, that the object of her affection returned her affection. And that was enough for her. For now. But would we be happy to leave things as they were, unacknowledged on one level, acknowledged but unfulfilled on another? Our connection was still there, but where would it lead us in the near future?

*****

_Sunday morning Rose lay in bed. She had given up trying to make breakfast for the kids a month ago. She made everything wrong, according to Bobby, and Charlotte had apparently given up breakfast and was nowhere to be found Sundays. She gave in to thinking of Before, remembering how Mike would freeze the wild blueberries he got in the summer and use them all year long for their Sunday pancakes. How he'd drive up to Michigan for the best maple syrup, buying several gallons he'd keep in a cool corner of the basement. Two gallons remained there still. But she'd taken to buying the supermarket brand from Canada, didn't have the heart to go down and bring up the oversized jug. Just a reminder of what she wasn't doing. Failures._

_The bed seemed empty, too big. She thought she ought to start sleeping in the middle, but years of habit kept her to one side, her side. Mike's side remained partially made still, the sheets smooth over the pillows. She knew Amber was not the first woman Mike had slept with during their marriage. She knew that. But others, she'd never actually caught him before that. She also knew Amber would be the last, the last he'd see while married to her. Because she couldn't pretend any more, not to herself at least. She would to the kids, knew how they viewed her, kicking out their poor father, and if they needed to think that to stay happy with Mike, so be it. It's important to love your father, to think he's great._

_A smell drifted through the cracks in the door. Vanilla, bread, sweetness? Rose opened her eyes wide and sat up. She listened. A murmur of voices downstairs, the sound of the pan being moved on the burner, a utensil in a glass bowl. She looked at the clock – 9 o'clock already. She'd been sleeping in later on weekends._

_She padded downstairs and saw, through the kitchen door, Bobby sitting at the counter, poking at something in a bowl. Charlotte was at the stove, flipping French toast. A plate on the table was already filled with golden-brown slices, and Rose felt suddenly ravenously hungry. She entered the kitchen, putting on her mom smile. "What smells so good?" she asked._

_Charlotte looked up and flipped two slices of egg-soaked bread in the pan. The table was set for three, with a pitcher of syrup and another of orange juice. "Have a seat, Mom," Charlotte said. "You're just in time for breakfast."_


	13. Conversations

_Well, Dear Readers, even though I received NO feedback for the last chapter, I am still submitting another chapter for your reading pleasure. But really, if  a story falls on the internet, is there anyone there to hear it land? Or maybe there are no readers out in the void…. I am, after all, writing this for myself, right? (That's not what our hero says!)  But it's important to share…._

**Chapter 13: Conversations**

And that was the second car ride with Grace.

The connection between us was not ambiguous, anymore. It was there. But I had a class full of other students to teach, and I had to teach. I liked to teach. How would Grace be tomorrow? Would I fluster away and say stupid things, as I had done in our past few encounters? Why was I feeling like the one with the adolescent crush here? So much was at stake for me; I don't think Grace really had a sense of it. She was at the "love conquers all doesn't it" stage in her life. Truth, truth and feelings were all that mattered. I, on the other hand, was at the "in reality love cannot conquer all" stage of my life. Truth was difficult to fathom, to discern, amidst the certainty of law, job, rent, experience, adulthood.

And tomorrow was Friday, I reflected as I drove home. Writing conference day. How would that be? Would it even happen? I pulled into my driveway, went into the kitchen. There was a message on my machine, and I felt my heart beat fast. Grace? Would she have called me? But what would she say? What was there to say without entering dangerous places? Already we had. I pressed the play button, both hoping and fearing to hear Grace's voice.

The message was from Chris. "Hey, Gus. Sorry about last night. I had no idea. She was totally different when we talked on the phone. August, I have to talk to you. Call me as soon as you get this message."

Did I want to talk to Chris right now? It would get my mind off what just happened. Yet part of me wanted to relive the moment, that moment when Grace said, "Why?" and my world turned upside down, the longest, most tortuous, most wonderful ten seconds of my life. I closed my eyes, a last indulgence, a vision where we were parked in a place with no one else, where no necessary interruption came, because interruption was not necessary, where lips and souls met, embraced, loved without impunity.

I opened my eyes, reached for the phone. Chris picked up on the first ring. "Bronson! Hello!" she said in a loud, falsely cheerful voice.

"What's up, Chris?"

"Oh fine, fine."

"You can't talk at the moment."

"Got that right. Hold on – Jazmynne? This is a client, private call. I'm going to take it in my office." I waited while I heard her walk into another room, shut a door. "August! Thanks goodness! I don't know what to do."

"What's wrong?"

"It's Jazmynne. She doesn't like me."

"Chris, you're not marrying Jazmynne. Everyone goes through relative troubles when they get married."

"We didn't. Your sisters loved me. Your parents loved me."

"We didn't get married, remember?"

"I know, I know. Okay. But, I mean, I think she wants to sabotage the wedding. In front of Barry she's fine – well, no worse than last night. But she does all these passive aggressive things…"

She continued, giving me examples of incidents that had happened in the two days since she had met Jazmynne. I zoned out, happy to hear her voice, but not really interested in hearing about her predicament, when I had mine to think about. Although we had managed to remain friends, I found paying attention was difficult, maybe because our breakup had involved the issue of marriage. Even though I knew now I did not want to be married to Chris, being the soundboard for her trials and tribulations regarding planning her wedding was not a role I wanted to play.

The role I wanted to play was the role I couldn't play. To be or not to be. With Grace. But I thought, I could accept where we are, be her teacher, mentor, Gay/Straight Alliance advisor, and enjoy her company to the extent of my ability in those roles. My mind kept returning to the moment, that eternal moment in the car, when time seemed suspended, when the world seemed far away, when nothing stood between our eyes, and I looked at her with full honesty, and she saw my look, she met my look, she returned my look. My lips felt warm again at the memory, and I pushed them together to feel a pressure, imagining it was her. Letting that go…

"… you know what I mean? August? You there still, August?"

I snapped back to the phone, to the moment, and realized I could not listen to any more of Chris's concerns about her wedding. "I'm here still, Chris," I began.

"So what do you think?"

"Chris, I think I am not your best girlfriend."

"What?"

"Chris, you know I love you dearly. But I used to be in love with you. Even though it was a long time ago. And I am happy to listen to your work woes and employee woes and political woes and even triumphs. But there's a line somewhere. And marriage planning difficulties – that's the line. No can do. Talk about it with Stacy. Or Margie even. Or your cousin. Just keep me out of the loop."

"Whoa," she said, after a moment's silence. "I guess this has been brewing."

"I guess so."

"Okay then. Well, I guess that's all I have to say now."

"Chris, I still want to come to the wedding."

"I know. But I'll ask someone else to be my maid of honor." At least she laughed, so I did as well. We both said goodbye then, and hung up.

There was no one I could talk to about my situation.  I certainly knew Grace would be Chris's line. And not Jerry, not my sisters.

I poured myself a glass of the Merlot leftover from the night before, and ate some of the Gouda with an apple I found in the fridge. Single's supper. But I had work to do. I had given my class a  surprise quiz the other day – was it really only three days ago? Seemed a lifetime, so much had happened. I had vowed to get it graded and back by Friday. I took my glass upstairs to my study with the folder of quizzes. I had promised it would be the last popper, but the first several papers I looked at were atrocious. It was as if I had been lecturing to an empty classroom, for how little the answers reflected what we had covered in class. I was getting more depressed.

As I sipped the dregs of my wine,  I heard the sound of something going through the mail slot downstairs. It was late – well past 10. I froze, then heard the sound of a car door shut and an engine start up. I peaked through the window in time to see taillights disappearing around the corner.

Slowly, quietly, I crept down the stairs. A manila envelope lay next to the front door, "Mr. Dimitri" scrawled across the top. In Grace's handwriting. I touched her words. I took the envelope upstairs, and opened it. Inside was Grace's story, "What You Need to Know," the one she'd been working on most consistently. A yellow sticky stuck across the top of the first page said, simply, "I think I've finished. Maybe we can talk about the new ending tomorrow."

Which meant she had every intention of coming to our regularly scheduled lunch meeting. A huge sense of relief flooded through me, the release of a tension I hadn't known was there.  I read the story right then, pleased with it, eager  to talk writing with her tomorrow. This story was at least of a caliber to be considered for publication.  I knew it was a long shot, but I thought it would be good practice for her, just to get a start, because her stuff was worthy of some of those magazines. Maybe not quite New Yorker yet, but it could be soon. And why not start now when she had the writing, because as I knew, the writing might not stay. I pulled together a list of information, addresses, contacts. 

*****

Friday. The temperature had risen considerably, must have been 20 degrees warmer than yesterday. April in Chicago – snow one day, practically beach weather the next. I decided to ride my bike. I paused at a stop sign and saw that orange cat again, curled up on the hood of a parked car next to me. Sunning. He opened his eyes as I paused, golden, staring, twitched his tale, jumped down and rubbed against the leg I was leaning on. He looked at me expectantly, and I reached down, and he pushed his head against my hand. I let my hand run along the length of his back to the end of his tail, and then he turned, and jumped back on the roof , settling into the sun.

Three classes before LCC. As students began entering, I pulled out the sheath of graded tests. "Did you get my story?" Grace. I looked up, and felt so stupidly happy to see her, I just grinned.

"I did indeed. You were up late."

"Yes, well, I finished it, and I thought, if I got it to you last night, we'd be able to go over it better today." Her hair was drawn back into a kind of bun, and her face looked fresh and alive this morning. She smiled, but I noticed her hands were gripping the straps of her backpack. This wasn't going to be easy for either of us, I knew. But it would be okay. I just felt absurdly glad that she wasn't upset or angry at me any more. Why she wasn't, what went beyond that, I didn't care to delve too deeply.

"Smart planning," I said. "It did give me some extra time, and it meant… it was good of you to bring it," I finished lamely. The bell rang.

"I'll see you at lunch, " she said, and went to her seat. I noticed Alexa then, standing in the doorway, staring at me, then glancing at Grace, then back at me. "Alexa?" I said. "Were you going to actually enter the classroom today?"

She ducked her head and slid into an empty seat near Grace, mumbling, "Sorry."

I stood and held up those quizzes. "Well, if you were wanting to give me doubts about how much you've been learning this year," I began. "You certainly succeeded." Shifting of seats, sighs. "Now, I know you know this material – you've even written half-decent papers on Donne and Ben Johnson. Pity it's not reflected here." I paraphrased Johnson. "Consider these small grades, here in this class… Tonight's assignment, due tomorrow – go home and write out the correct answers to every question you missed."

Now grumblings, protests, as I returned the test. "This has taken enough time already," I said. "Just bring back both the test and the corrections tomorrow. Now. It's time to finish the seventeenth century. I hope you've all read the rest of Johnson's poems?"

*****

Lunch meetings. Lisa was first today, then Grace; Russell was out sick. Grace pulled up her chair by the desk and opened her notebook. She was wearing a deep red shirt that complimented the russet of her hair. I noticed she was wearing that shell necklace she had worn all those months ago, when I introduced her to Linda. I took out my copy of her story. "This is really wonderful, Grace," I began.

"Really?" 

"Yes. You capture the mother and the daughter so well, and the drifting apart of the friends at the same time. It's just… honest. Real. There are a few points I marked – you might want to throw in some sentences that could better distinguish Charlotte's relationships with both Sondra and Roxanne--"

"Should I develop them more?"

"Well, not too much. It is a secondary story here; they're supporting characters and you don't want them to get more weight than they deserve. But just a few things to make them different from one another, and show different ways friends can grow apart."

Grace pondered this, tapping her pen against her teeth. She scribbled some notes in the margin of her copy.

"Now the next question," I continued. "Is where do we go from here?"

"What?" she said, sounding surprised.

I realized, feeling foolish, how that must have sounded, and quickly elaborated. "I mean, once you make those changes, which shouldn't take long, what do you want to do with the story?"

"I, I don't know…" she fingered the corner of the top paper.

"I said several months ago, you're going to start needing to show these to other people. That's why we write, isn't it? To be read?"

"Yes… but… well, you've read them."

"Broaden your audience, Grace. You could leave it lying around your house. Leave it on your coffee table, for example, sort of accidentally –

"On purpose?" she added, looking at me directly.

I smiled, and she did too.

"And that's for family feedback. You could also," and I pulled out the contact list and handed to her, "send it to a magazine."

"What, like a student publication or something?"

"No," I said. "Like a real publication. Like The New Yorker or The Atlantic Monthly. Now, those are two highly competitive magazines for fiction, and this story probably isn't right for them – you need to read potential publications and know their style, and see what's compatible with yours. But there are dozens of literary magazines from which acceptance would be an honor."

"Wow. You really think I could get this published?"

"I can't guarantee anything. I know I like this story, I think it holds together very well, and I want to keep reading it. Then again," I added without thinking, " I might be biased."

Out eyes met again and she smiled.

"Look," I said. "Revise your story and send it out to TriQuarterly. It's Northwestern's literary mag. They publish first-rate stuff – I'll show you a copy. Even if you get rejected from them, if they send you anything other than a form letter, it means they've really read it and thought it was worthwhile. And if they say no, there are several others you can try."

"Wow," she said again. "I mean, I just never thought about publishing now. And, well, this story is, to be honest, kind of personal." She looked down, fingering the shell around her neck.

"I figured," I said. "That must have been difficult."

"It's just, all the changes. When I was, I don't know, 11, 12, I never expected my life to change, other than the normal way it just does because you get older. I thought the people, my parents, my family, would always be what it was, people I could believe in. And when… my father… it just kind of changes how you look at the whole world, you know?"

"Believe it or not, I do," I said. "High school can do that to anyone, but when you have your core fabric being torn and patched together into entirely different patterns, it's hard to know where you stand."

"Exactly!" she exclaimed. "I mean, it's been a few years now, I've gotten used to it, but I still feel like I'm going to have that rug pulled out again and cut up into an entirely new shape all over. Oh!" She stopped talking and made another note on her story. Then, "Are your parents still together?" she asked.

Oddly, I found myself wishing I could tell a parallel story, an "I went exactly through what you're going through" tale. Except I'm glad I didn't. "Very much so," I said. "My childhood was disgustingly straightforward and happily all-American. Well, with a few exceptions."

"Exceptions?"

"Well, home life was always good. I could count on that. School was… something of a challenge. It can be hard when you're smarter than everyone else, and know it, and indicate that you know it."

"You didn't."

"Grace, I was publishing poems in national magazines before I was 18."

"Wow. So do you still write?"

The five minute end-of-lunch warning bell rang., and we both jumped. I took a breath. "That, Grace, is a long story. Suffice it to say, believe in your writing now, and love it if you do. Now," I stood, and returned my untouched lunch to its paper bag, "Assignment for next week: final revisions, query letter to the TriQuarterly, and leave a copy of the revised story in your living room."

"Without you checking it?"

"That's right. You are always going to be your own final editor."

She gathered her papers together and stood, walked to the door, turned. "Oh – what about the Gay/Straight Alliance dance – should we have a planning meeting or something?"

"Yes – thanks for remembering. Definitely. Any days better for you?"

"Tuesday or Wednesday," she said.

"I'll schedule it in."

"Okay. See you Monday?"

 "Yes… have a good weekend." And she was gone. I'll miss you, I added silently. 


	14. Moments

_Hello, Dear Readers. Well, flattery will get you everywhere. Thanks for all the lovely feedback. In appreciation, I'm submitting, for your reading pleasure, not one but two (count 'em, two) chapters tonight. (And remember the second sentence of this message.)_

Chapter 14: Moments 

Some obstacle had been overcome, a barrier gone. Affection unstated but there, and somehow, school worked. I taught, she participated, no tensions. Friendly banter. After all, throughout the year she had been the "smart one," the one I could call on when no one else raised their hand, no reason to change now. 

But compartmentalizing. Essential for day to day. Separating attraction from self, from the classroom. Except this became the class I cared about, got through the others, lived for fourth period, but could not stare, could not gaze. A decade of experience teaching through all conditions held me in good stead, helped keep me professional. Teacher as objective actor.

Thinking about Grace would make me smile, and I was happy. I saw her at most for an hour a day, in a classroom filled with other people, but the bond was there, invisible to the naked eye, and it was enough.

But it couldn't be enough for long, could it? Because with romantic affection come desires. Physical, certainly, but emotional as well, the need to be _alone_ _together_. Wanted  more. More time, more space, more Grace. Wanted to eat dinner with her, see movies, plays, discuss literature without the interruption of other students expressing their important but really irrelevant opinions.

And I wanted to walk down the street holding her hand, put my arm around her, kiss those full lips, run my fingers through that soft auburn hair, lift it above her neck and watch it fall smoothly back around her shoulders, kiss her throat, those lonely eyes, kiss warmth into them, and embrace her, fully, tightly, hold her close against me, feel her curves against me. Love her. Be loved by her.

But even thinking about it, now, how could it appear as anything other than something bordering on the criminal? I write these words, I know I was attracted to Grace on many levels, physically as well as emotionally, and that disturbed me as much as my feelings for Grace made me happy. That moment in the car, the moments in the classroom, all moments. How long is a moment? A moment isn't enough when you are always wanting more time.

And how could Grace possibly understand or even match my feelings? A crush, a crush that she knew was returned, but it was a romance that couldn't follow the course of mutual affection that adult relationships travel, or what has come to be the normal course today. I thought of literary romances of the past, romances that were carried on for years, affairs of the heart and longing looks, but never sex – the societal  taboos were too strong. The virtue Lily retained in _House of Mirth_, the professionalism between butler Stevens and housekeeper Miss Kenton in _The Remains of the Day_. Lin Kong and Manna Wu of _Waiting_, protagonists who maintained a love affair in Communist China for over two decades without ever touching. They do, ultimately marry (and touch only then), but the passion is brittle, and fragile. Lily dies a pauper without loving Lawrence,  and duty-obsessed Stevens pursues too late his feelings of love, and lives a life alone. Perhaps the past and literature are not the best models for me.

There was not a way this could look right, for me, for us, from the outside. Because I was her teacher. Because she was a teenager, _just seventeen, if  you know what I mean_, so the song goes, everyone does, wink-wink. And no matter what I say, it would sound like an excuse, even to my ears, certainly to my ears. With Grace, it wasn't about sex, it wasn't about getting a nubile innocent, impressionable teenager into bed. I never could have casual sexual relationships. One-night stands. That brief affair with K, where I fell hard, and she left me after a few weeks, showed me. I couldn't just sleep with someone without loving them, without really knowing them. Which may be unusual, but for me, with sex there is an emotional attachment, an emotional involvement. To be that close to someone, that exposed, that vulnerable, is not something I can slip into lightly. Giving and receiving pleasure, the ultimate exposure; trust was essential, and you cannot have trust with someone you don't know well.

I could carry on with Chris even after we had ended our romantic liaison because we trusted each other implicitly. Neither of us had someone else then, and  the physical affection was an antidote to loneliness. But I couldn't keep on that way when I knew she was with someone. Maybe it was the intensity of the emotional connection that enabled me  to remain attracted to yet distant from Grace for so long. Of course I knew, part of me knew, that couldn't last forever, that when there are dangling attractions, they cannot remain suspended indefinitely when those involved want them to connect.

I had convinced myself, then, that all our interactions were above board. After all, nothing really did happen in the car. I told her Chris was an ex girlfriend, that was that. We enjoyed each other's company, that was that. If the air around us felt charged, to me, sometimes, that was that. Nothing further would happen. I was her teacher, that was that.

It is amazing how easily and fully one can deceive oneself when the desire to do so is there.

And how quickly actions become a routine. _This is what we do_.

A minute or two before class time, Wednesday evening Gay/Straight Alliance meetings, weekly creative writing discussions, daily class. A pattern of acceptable moments.


	15. Alliances

_Dear Readers, see the note at the start of chapter 14. Your feedback is inspiring! Makes me feel like there are folks out there who CARE. Or something. Anyway, nice to hear from you, to know there actually are voices in the void._

Chapter 15: Alliances 

I actually did believe in the Gay/Straight Alliance, was pleased that something real seemed to be developing for students questioning their sexual identity. That said, I couldn't wait for Grace to arrive at my house Wednesday. I put out some chips in a bowl, and looked in my fridge to see if there was anything else. I saw the wedges of cheese from that silly blind date, barely touched by anyone other than me. I knew the Chabichou would be even better having ripened a few more days. I set out a board with the cheeses, some grapes. No wine, of course.

This time, prudently perhaps, Grace did not arrive early (and I was shaved and dressed long before anyone got there). She came after a few students had already arrived, including, to my surprise, Tad. I hadn't expected him to return, after his sophomoric references to bisexual girls that first meeting.

 Then I figured it was probably another calculated activity for his college application. I think he and Grace were the only two representing the straight part of the Alliance of the dozen or so students who showed up, so his presence was worth something. 

We discussed goals for both the group and the dance, thoughts of what might be done beyond the dance. Russell suggested offering dedicated counseling services. There was a buzz in the air – everyone felt good about the funding for the dance coming through, and it gave people a boost. They thanked Grace periodically. People crowded around the table and elected officers and a secretary who immediately started taking minutes. They inhaled the liters of soda and bowl of chips. They were more hesitant to try the cheese, which was unconventional and weird-looking; Grace cut herself a slice.  I went to the kitchen to refill the bowl of chips.

Coming back, I saw Tad leaning close to Grace, returning, apparently, to flirt mode. "No seriously," I heard him say as I reached the table. "You look good in red. That shirt, like, just makes your hair look really good."

"Give me a break, Tad," Grace said, but there was a tone of the flattered in her voice.

"Seriously. Ask anyone here." He looked around the table. "Doesn't that red shirt make Grace look really good?"

People looked up from their various conversations. Russell nodded in agreement. "It's true, Grace. Red is the color for you, babe."

I put the food on the table and sat down, stealing a quick glance at Grace and saw she was looking at me, searching for a reaction? I just smiled noncommittally. Told myself jealousy was not there, any feelings of annoyance I had toward Tad right now were more of a protective nature, didn't want Grace being bothered by such a jerk.

Grace glanced up at me as I sat, then said, "I thought we were planning the dance, not determining the best colors for my personal wardrobe. So. Tad, did you want to work on publicizing the dance?"

"Me?" he said, now the reluctant center of attention.

Russell said, "Yeah, man – if superstud Thaddeus says the Gay/Straight dance is cool, that would be publicity right there. Don't let us down, man. I mean, that is why you're here, right?"

Expectant eyes looked at Tad, who didn't have his usual posse around him. He glanced at Grace, who shot him a challenging look.

"I can do that," he said.

Plans were made, subcommittees formed, meeting adjourned. Most people left, but Tad continued to hover near Grace. I couldn't stand it, wanted to get rid of him, and his youth, and his transcript of college worthy experiences. Compartmentalize, I told myself. I began to clear the food. "Oh wait," Grace said. "What is that cheese, that creamy one?"

"Chabichou ," I answered.

"Guzundheit!" Tad said. Ha, ha.

"Chabichou ," she repeated. "It is _so_ good! It's kind of nutty – sweet – but tangy too."

"Exactly!" I said. "It's a goat cheese – that's the tang. It's one of my favorites, but they don't have it that often here.

She cut herself another slice. "Well,  I like it."

Tad looked from Grace to me. "It's cheese," he said. "What's the big deal?" 

"Ah, but it's French cheese, Tad. In France, _fromage_ is a big deal." I cleared the rest of the food onto a tray, but left the cheese. I turned toward the kitchen, carrying the tray. Behind me I heard Tad say, "Grace – how's Jessie? I thought she was coming tonight?"

"_That's_ why you came," she stated.

As I pushed through the kitchen door, I heard him say, "We all have our ulterior motives for being here, Grace."

No more voices for a moment, just the sound of dishes being gathered. Then Grace appeared in the kitchen carrying the cheese plate, followed by Tad carrying the last bottle of Sprite. She put the plate down and said,  "I don't think Jessie's coming any more. She wants to spend the time with her mom. In the hospital. I'm picking her up later. As for ulterior motives, Tad, mine is try to ensure that Sinclair can be a comfortable place for everyone, no matter who they choose to care about." Grace looked around and I opened a cupboard and handed her a box of plastic wrap. She started to wrap the cheese. I started to wash dishes. Tad sat on one of the kitchen chairs.

"Okay, okay. Sorry. I believe in the Gay/Straight Alliance and all that." He stood again and went to the counter near Grace. "But… has Jessie said anything to you? About me?"

"Um, not really." I could tell there were things Grace wasn't saying.

"It feels like she's been avoiding me," Tad continued. He was talking as if I weren't there, or as if it didn't matter that I was, the invisible teacher, the irrelevant advisor. "I thought I might see her tonight. Maybe I could pick her up at the hospital instead of you, give her a ride home?"

I looked over my shoulder at Grace. She had paused in her cleanup. I could tell she was tempted. I was tempted. But also, not a great idea.

"I don't think so," Grace said. "She's kind of expecting me, and my Mom's kind of expecting me to come through. I kind of blew her off too many times." 

Tad stood up. "Well, then…" he said lamely. "I guess I should get going…"

I went back into the other room and got the rest of the cups. As I reentered the kitchen, I heard Grace say, "So, still want to help publicize the dance?".

"Yeah, yeah. I said I would. Besides…" Tad looked over at me. "Never mind. Listen, Grace – do you want to get a Coke or something somewhere?"

Seemed like the blood was draining from all my extremities, leaving me to feel transparent, amorphous, no solid ground. Of course boys her own age would pursue Grace. Anyone with any intelligence would recognize her original beauty, see the amazing person there. And she was flattered by Tad's attention once, she liked it, she had confessed to me. Flirting. She need make no excuses to me, we did not have  -- what didn't we have? I felt the floor tilt underneath me, stumbled, dropped the tray of cups I was carrying. "Damn," I said, looking at the mess of spilled drinks.

Startled, Grace and Tad looked over where I was. 

"Bummer, man!" Tad observed.

"Everything okay?" Grace asked.

"Fine, fine, just tripped on the rug," I excused, glad I had used plastic cups at least. I sidestepped the mess and grabbed a wad of paper towels and a trash bag.

"Grace?" Tad prompted.

My back was to them as I crouched down, lifting cups into the trash and wiping the sticky pool of spilled sodas. I felt Grace's eyes upon me as I heard her say, "Actually, Tad, I can't." No elaboration. My tensed shoulders relaxed, a flush of relief waved through me. I concentrated on cleaning, letting the white towels absorb the liquid. I heard Grace cross the room and open the refrigerator, putting away the cheese. I stood, turned to see Tad pick up his backpack, shrug on his jacket.

"I guess I'll see you in class tomorrow," he said. Grace, leaning against the fridge, nodded. "Bye Mr. Dimitri," he called. And then was gone. I tore off more paper towels. Grace reached under the sink, then brought me a spray bottle of  cleaner. "There's no rug here," she said, indicating where I had dropped the tray.

"No," I said, bending down again and spraying the floor. Grace crouched opposite me and wiped the floor with a dry paper towel. "Clumsy, I guess." Our eyes met. I opened my mouth to say something, but what? Words that had to remain unsaid, words it was not my place to say. I stood, took the soiled towel from Grace, threw it away. She sat in the chair Tad had vacated.

"Jessie's gay," she said.

"What?"

"I think she and Katie Singer are, like, a couple."

"You didn't tell Tad that."

"It's not my place to. She hasn't even told me, I just know because – well, I just know."

"My sister's a lesbian," I said. "That time, that first meeting, you started to ask me about being involved with the Alliance…"

"When… you got that phone call…" she said.

"Yes. Well, that's why I think the Alliance is so important, and why I'm glad, in spite of everything, that you were able to convince the board to fund the dance. I kind of promised June I'd make sure the Gay/Straight Alliance worked at Sinclair. She had a tough time in high school, and none of us knew why then."

"You didn't know she was gay?"

"Not until she was a junior in college, and I was in India. People weren't gay in high school when I went to high school. It just, it wasn't even considered as a possibility that anyone could be."

"Wow," Grace said. "That's so, like, homophobic."

"But it wasn't even that it was homophobic, then," I said, leaning both elbows on the counter, wishing for a glass of wine. "It was more homo-ignorant. Not that people would have been that nice, either, had they thought about it."

"Okay," she said. "So maybe, now, I do care about the Gay/Straight Alliance. And the… dance." She looked at her watch. "Shoot! I told Jessie I'd be there in one minute. I better go." I retrieved her jacket from the other room and held it as she slipped her arms into each sleeve.

"So how's next Wednesday for the next meeting?" I asked.

"Actually… next Wednesday's my, um, birthday," she said. "I'll be 17."

"Seventeen," I echoed, thinking how much older it sounded than 16, that in a matter of a week she would be closer in age to me by a year, that somehow the difference wasn't so bad then.

"And my family's, like planning a dinner and everything. At my Dad's, I mean my Aunt's restaurant book store place. Book Lovers."

"That's your family?" I asked. "That's a great store. Eclectic selection. Well, I wish you a happy birthday. Why don't we meet on Thursday, then?"

"Great," she said. "Well, I'm off." She stood hesitantly at the door. But I stayed safely behind the counter.

"See you tomorrow."

"Good evening, fair Grace," and I bowed with a flourish. She laughed, and left.


	16. Acting Lessons

_Hello, Dear Readers (with apologies to Miss Manners, I have appropriated this nomenclature). Ah, the world of Grace and... what do we call him? That sensitive, New Age literary red-head with the best of intentions. Enjoy, and keep a journal._

**Chapter 16: Acting Lessons**

In class, the focus was character. We read excerpts from classic novels to observe the development of famous characters, both lead and supporting, from a variety of literary traditions: Anna Karenina, Raskolnikov, Madame Bovary, Pere Goriot, Becky Thatcher, Frankie Adams. We also read excerpts from authors' journals, to see how their personal observations were reflected in their writing.

Thursday I began with a short lecture. "Part of what writing is all about is examining truth. I realize this is an ambiguous concept, and seemingly contradictory to the nature of fiction, which by definition is _not_ true, is made up. But, at the risk of sounding lofty, through writing fiction – whether it be short stories, novels, plays, poetry – you're investigating people, how people interact, how they behave with one another, or other creatures, or nature, or God. It's all about behavior. And by _truth_, I mean, all good writing should show some insight into humanity. _Why are you writing about what you're writing? It should be apparent, it should be obvious, yet subtle at the same time, hidden. When you create characters, you should know them, and keep them in character, which is part of being truthful." Then I announced the next assignment. "With that in mind, I want you to devote five to seven pages to describing a character – real or imagined. Get into who this person is. I want to know and understand them by the end of those pages. Due a week from tomorrow."_

Hands shot up. "Does it have to be a real person?" No. "Can we make up the character?" Yes. "Can it be someone we've already written about?" No. This is a new assignment, new writing.

I added, "Look at the characters we've been reading about this week. How, in one sentence, Flaubert can give you a feel for who Emma Bovary is, the way McCullers lets us sense Frankie's age and dreams sometimes ambiguously, sometimes specifically spelling them out. And how both characters represent more than just themselves, but capture an essence of the times – both in society and personally."

"But those are classic writers!" someone complained.

"And Madame Bovary is so annoying," Grace said.

"Annoying does not mean poor character development," I responded.

She thought for a moment. "True. I guess he develops her, you know, personality well, so you see both how she looks at things from inside, and how she appears, from outside."

"Exactly. And yes, these are classic writers. I'm not going to give you examples of poor writing as models. These authors should inspire. Just let yourselves go and enjoy your assignment."

The bell rang.

*****

Got extra time again with Grace on Friday; Lisa was still working on a story and wanted to wait a week, and the time with Russell went quickly, and there we were. 

"So, did you do your assignments?" I began.

She opened her folder, handed me a new copy of "What You Need to Know," said, "Well, mostly."

"Mostly? Meaning…?"

"Okay. I revised it, like you said. And here – " she handed me a single sheet, the cover letter for _TriQuarterly_ – "I sent this off. But. I haven't left the story lying around yet."

"Any definitive plans to do that?" I asked.

Instead of answering, Grace handed me a new story. "I didn't finish this one till really late, so I couldn't get it to you before."

I glanced through the pages. "Instruments of Change," it was called. I started to read while she watched me, aware of her eyes upon me as I read her words. _The violin lay untouched in its case for 37 years, preserved yet hollow, merely a shell of cherry wood and catgut without the owner's touch, waiting perhaps to be discovered once again, or perhaps not, content to sit encased indefinitely; it was, after all, merely a man-made instrument. _As with all Grace's stories, I continued, mesmerized, until the end.

When I looked up, I realized there were only a few minutes left. "I wrote comments as I went along," I said. "I like the indirect action."

"What do you mean?"

"Indirect action is where you hear about significant events important to the story through characters describing those events or actions. We, as readers, don't see the actual event, we hear about it, filtered through the eyes of the character. Chekhov was a pioneer of this literary technique. 'Instruments,' and, really, many of your other stories, remind me of Chekhov's short stories."

"Short stories?" she said. "I thought Chekhov just, like, wrote plays."

"That's what he's most famous for. You know, I think Act Two Theatre is doing _The Cherry Orchard_, which we should definitely see." I said _we_. Not you. "But he also wrote many incredible short stories, and some of your work is written in that tradition. Maybe you were Russian in a past life." I smiled at the image. "I have some of Chekhov's short-story collections. Some first editions in Russian."

"You can read Russian?" she asked.

"Another thing you didn't know about me," I said. "Studied it in college. I also have an early English translation, from 1901. There's something about reading a book published around the time the author wrote it that's really inspiring."

"Oh yes," she enthused. "I love old books. There's this awesome used book store down by University of Chicago I go to sometimes."

"Powell's – I used to live there when I was in graduate school at the U of C." The warning bell rang, startling me even though I had anticipated it. "I think you'd enjoy Chekhov's stories. Anyway – you never answered my question. Any _definitive _plans on letting other people read your story?"

"Okay, okay. This week. I will."

"Good." I handed her the new story and put the revised "What You Need to Know" in my valise. "I'll get this one back to you soon." I walked to the door with Grace and opened it for her. Alexa was standing next to the door, in the hall. Grace looked surprised, but took off down the hall, saying, "See you tomorrow."

"Alexa?" I said. "Were you waiting to see me? Did we have an appointment?"

"Yes. I mean, no," she said. "No appointment, I mean. I just thought, if you had a free minute, maybe we could talk about this character assignment."

Five minutes until the next class, but I went back into the classroom with her, tried to give her pointers. She kept repeating, "But, I just don't get how to do that!"

Finally I said, "Alexa. Don't try so hard, don't worry about getting it right or not. Just, write without thinking too much about what I might think. Look, try this exercise. Describe – someone in your family. Just sit down and write whatever comes into your head. Don't reread it as you write – just let words flow onto paper, even if they don't make sense."

"But that's so, you know, disorganized," she complained. "No one will want to read that."

Some people have a gift for writing, some don't, but I still believe in the power of writing, regardless if you're going to be the next Shakespeare or Danielle Steele – putting words on paper can help you think, and poetry can come from unexpected places. I felt for Alexa, because she was not a talented or creative writer, and she so wanted to be. However, she was industrious, and I admired her tenacity regardless.

The final bell rang, and my next class began to filter into the room. "But that's what you need to let go, Alexa," I said. "Look. Do a draft the way I described. Do not read over what you wrote, and hand it in before the assignment is due. I'll comment on what you've written to help for the final copy. I bet you'll surprise yourself." She looked dubious, but gathered her papers together. 

 "Thanks, I guess," she said.

*****

Another weekend, two Graceless days. Friday I had dinner with my sister April and her family, enjoying the distraction of my niece and nephews and conversations that jumped all over the place. Saturday I started to go through the class journals.

_I can't believe the play is done already,_ Alexa wrote._ I love stage managing. Actors worry all the time about costumes and sets and stuff, when I know I can take care of everything. I tried to observe more, to try to get more ideas for extra stories, but it seems like I can barely have the ideas we actually get assigned turn into stories. The year is almost done, and still I haven't written those extra stories. I only wrote those ones we've done for class. You said I should step out of myself more, and into a totally different narrator, to try to imagine that, but when I did that you said it was wooden._

_I'm trying to be more observant now, to notice the little things that you said might seem to be insignificant but write them down anyway. Like how when I was stage-managing for both plays, and managed to keep track of where everyone needed to be when and with who and in what costume. Trying to take those details I make in lists and turn them into details for a story. Trying to see the interactions going all around before me. When Jerry's wife started coming to rehearsals bringing him sandwiches, I could see he didn't really like the sandwiches that much, but he liked that she brought them. I thought that was an interesting detail and observation. And like it was smart who Jerry picked for the leads, because there was tension there off stage that worked on stage. Maybe I'll want to do directing some time. I noticed the girl Sara who did costumes for the last play didn't do them this time. All these things I'm trying to notice, but it's hard to know which unimportant details are actually important, or at least are interesting enough to use. It's hard to just make things up and have it be a story._

*****

Saturday night I went out with Jerry and Rene, and a friend of Rene's from work. I had thought it would be just the three of us, would have said no, had I known I was being set up. The odd loyalty of two people who cannot date. They insisted it was not a blind date, was just a chance to go out with two friends, though I don't know why they pretended. We had dinner, Spanish with pitchers of sangria. Talk turned to work, inevitably – Rene and Nina discussed sales issues at the software company where they programmed, and Jerry regaled us with tales of his recent production.

"Meant to tell you," I said. "Great interpretation of _The Crucible_, Jer."

Nina looked around the table. "We're talking high-school play here?"

"Yep," I said. "Jerry and I direct the productions at Upton Sinclair."

"I love _The Crucible_," she said. "Sorry I missed it."

I said, "You missed a great show. I went each night, and it kept getting better." Wouldn't dream of missing any of Grace's performances.

"Thank you, thank you," Jerry said. "Those stepsisters are quite the actresses. I don't know what you did with Grace Manning when you directed her in _As You Like It_, but she has really come into her own as an actress. I mean, she was good before, but now…"

"She really was incredible," Rene interjected. "Not the typical high-school performance. She has such presence on the stage. And the other one, who played Abigail Williams?" 

"Jessie Sammler," Jerry supplied.

"Yes – she was very good too. But Elizabeth Proctor – scary to have a teenager act that convincingly!"

"And Grace writes well, too," I said, glad for the excuse to say her name. "One of those all-around brilliant students."

After dinner, we went to a jazz club, drank too much beer, and debated the merits of Chicago versus New Orleans jazz, a topic I knew little about, but was happy to express uninformed, drunken opinions about nonetheless. Nina laughed and debated, and was harmless, certainly better than the bizarre Jazmynne, but I felt nothing. And if I felt nothing, I would be loyal to Grace, in my heart, as I wished it could be Grace sitting and staying up too late, listening to jazz and forming uninformed opinions about it together with me. I wondered what she was doing this weekend, if Tad had approached her again, or others, but didn't want to think about that.

I bowed out of giving Nina a ride home, pleading drunkenness, and told Jerry I'd pick up my car from his house the next day; they dropped me off. Home, late, past 2 in the morning, and I went for the box of journals I read each weekend, fishing out Grace's, read her words, looked for signs.

_Things that are surprising to me now: That I actually like someone named after a jewelry company. The difference between first impressions and lasting impressions. Changing impressions. Like with the Musician, who seemed so mysterious once, so captivating, but as I got to know the person the mystery dissipated when I saw the boy that was there, neither good nor bad, but not the depth I had imagined, because when we don't know, profundity can be there if we want to think it is, as I thought with him. Or we can imagine there is no depth, that the waters are shallow only, as with she I called Bimbo for so long, really, until I experienced birth and realized there is no greater depth than that. And discovered that a name that seemed superficial and trite actually means "manifestation of God." That intelligence can be where you least expect it, in ways that are unfamiliar. It is the unfamiliar that intrigues me now, that I want to uncover and understand. That there can be great complexity in simplicity, in trying to understand it. In everyone, really, there must be more than meets the eye, and with some we are lucky enough to learn that, even if the more is less than we expected. Better, of course, when it is much more, and I am finding more now than I had thought or hoped I might learn. Other lives. That a challenge can be an act of love._

I fell asleep with the journal by my side in bed.


	17. The Art of Giving

_Hallo, Dear Readers. Ah, feedback, never enough, but sufficient to encourage me to post this chapter. Letters and words and sentences and paragraphs floating out across the bytes and cables and phone lines... Amorphous. But no matter. This story must be told: humble Dimitri, a voice that needs to be heard._

**Chapter 17: The Art of Giving**

Wednesday. Grace's birthday. Seventeen. She came to class with her hair partly clipped back in a simple barrette, the rest hanging down. A deep rose shirt with a scoop neck, the shell necklace delicate and shining against her pale skin. Tad was right; red did become Grace. She smiled slightly as she entered the classroom. I had her story to return and held it up, so she stopped by my desk. "Those changes look good," I said, handing it to her. I had wanted to give her something today. A flower, a card, a token of my affection, but couldn't. I indulged in a yellow sticky, stuck on the last page, wrote simply, "And happy birthday. A.D." That was okay, that was something a teacher could write. But I said it, too, as I handed her the paper. "Have a nice birthday today."

She grinned, took the story, and went to her seat. I noticed Alexa was sitting behind her, and her eyes went to the story Grace held, then to me, and suddenly I worried that Grace might leaf through it now, but told myself there was nothing to worry about. Still, to my relief, Grace put the story in her folder and pulled out her notebook.

At the end of class Alexa came up to me with a few pages. Grace started to approach the desk, but saw Alexa there, turned, and left the classroom. Alexa said, "Here's the draft you told me to write. I know it probably doesn't make any sense. But it's, like, what you told me to do."

"That's good, Alexa," I said. "I look it over tonight and give it back to you tomorrow."

*****

Thursday, finally, was the Gay/Straight Alliance meeting at my house. I had bought some new Chabichou. I hoped Grace would come first; I wanted to tell her more about Chris. She may not have needed it, but I wanted to tell her exactly what had happened between us; for me, with Grace, honesty was so important, and I didn't want any airbrushed versions of truth between us. At least in this regard.

But Tad arrived first this time, again to my surprise. "Hey, Mr. D.," he said, coming into the kitchen where I was getting food ready. He picked some slices of apple off the plate. He looked like he wanted to say something. I stopped pouring chips into a bowl and looked at him expectantly. "Can I ask you something, like, personal?"

"You can ask," I said. "I might not answer."

He grinned, then got serious. "Are you gay?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, I mean, why do this? And, you teach drama and English, and you have all those CDs of musicals."

"You're perpetuating stereotypes, Tad," I said. "Actually, I will answer. I'm not gay, not that it matters, but have a lot of friends and family who are, and I think this is a worthwhile way to spend the little spare time I have."

"You have family who's gay?" he asked.

"Yes. My sister."

And now he was quiet, and pensive, and for a rare moment the football façade was down, the intelligence underneath came through, and he said, quietly, after looking around. "Can I tell you something, in, like, confidence? You won't tell anyone?"

"What is it?" I asked, making no promises.

He looked around; no one else had come yet. "I think my brother's gay."

"That's why you've been coming to these meetings?"

"Yeah. He's, like, a freshman, hasn't ever said anything, but. I saw something"

"Is he into drama and English?"

Tad laughed curtly. "No, actually. Math and science. Swim team. But, I walked in on him one time with his best friend, kind of lying on top of him… I pretended I didn't see anything, but…"

"Well, it could just be experimenting – "

"That's what I tried to tell myself."

"Or, you could be right."

"That's what I really think. I mean, at first, I was kind of freaked, but we've always been, close, but, I just don't want anyone giving him a hard time. I mean,  I don't want people like me giving him shit – excuse me. Especially when I'm not going to be around to protect him."

There was a knock on the back door. Grace. I just said, "It'll be okay, Tad. He's lucky you're his brother." 

"You think?"

"Yes. Especially if we can really get the Gay/Straight Alliance on firm ground."

Grace looked questioningly at us, and I shrugged slightly. The front doorbell rang, and Tad went to answer it. Soon we were back to planning, decisions argued, resolved, date set for the dance. Tad left with the group this time, pausing to say a quick thanks. Then, at last, Grace was alone with me in the kitchen.

"You and Tad seemed kind of chummy today," she said, sitting at the counter and nibbling leftover cheese.

"Better me than you," I dared, and she blushed and didn't pursue.

But there was something I wanted to talk about. "Grace," I began. "I need to tell you more about Chris."

Her shoulders tensed, but in a neutral voice she said, "Oh?"

"When… when you asked me about her, the other day…"

"… in the car?"

"Yes… I said she used to be my girlfriend, in college."

Looking down, she said quickly, "Are you still seeing her in reality?"

"Still – no! No. We are just friends. In fact, she's engaged. But, we actually, we lived together for a long time. We talked about getting married. Then we broke up about four years ago."

"Oh," she said softly.

"And, well, until she got engaged last fall, neither of us were dating anyone new, so we still, sometimes, saw each other."

"And now?"

"Just friends. Just…"

She looked up at me and said, "Thanks for telling me. And, Mr. Dimitri – I would never go out with Tad. Even if it was just to talk about Jessie."

I said, simply, "Oh."

She looked at her watch. "Speaking of whom, I should go get her now. At her mom's." She stood, and I retrieved her coat from the chair where she had left it earlier, saying nothing as I felt her slip her arms into the sleeves, resisting the urge to zip her up, resisting the urge to step closer and remove the jacket, pull her close, trace the outline of her jaw with my thumbs. I stepped back behind the safe barrier of the counter. And watched as she left.

I went to the fridge and pulled out a half-filled bottle of Shiraz, poured myself a glass. I thought of the stories Grace was writing, and of the writers I had recommended she read. Chekhov. And the perfect present came to me, although I could not call it a birthday present, would not, though it would be a gift.

That night I looked through my library. In my room I had a bookcase with a glass door that shut and locked and kept moisture out. I kept my first editions here, my special collections. In college, in addition to majoring in Creative Writing, I had majored in Comparative Literature, with Russian as the language. Chekhov had been a favorite – more manageable and succinct than the Dickensian wordiness of Tolstoy. I had a leather-bound first edition of his short stories in Russian, quite valuable, though I had found it in a used book store in Providence, stock from an estate sale. And I had a valuable – not quite as valuable – second edition of the English translation. I opened the cabinet and lifted it off the shelf. I held it. Published in 1901. Over 100 years ago. I would hold these old books and feel the ghosts of previous owners, read, perhaps, by someone who knew Chekhov personally, who saw original productions of his plays.

I looked at his stories. That trilogy, the middle story especially, that I identified with too closely. Grace did not need this. Maybe she wanted it, but she didn't need this from me. What was I thinking. Give her this book? But I wanted her to have this book, which meant something to me, from me. And these stories, Chekhov had started writing very young; he had died very young. He was barely older than I am now when TB consumed him. I reread my favorite story in this collection. I knew Grace would enjoy this and others as she read it.

I went over to my desk and got a fountain pen, because one couldn't inscribe a century-old book with a ball-point pen. I held it, knowing if I inscribed the book it would devalue the book monetarily, but it would add a value to the book for Grace. 

I held the pen, thinking what to write, picturing Grace in my classroom, in my car, in my kitchen, those deep, luminous brown eyes, thinking of how she had looked that day she had come to my house, when I had covered up my feelings with papers. I wrote quickly, before I could think and consider and spoil it: "To the girl with the loneliest eyes."

There. I had written in the book, made it something permanent, defining that connection between us. But I hadn't signed it yet. I went into the kitchen, poured myself a another glass of Shiraz. Sipped it, drank it, went back. "To the girl with the loneliest eyes" Staring back at me. Not on the first flyleaf, three pages in. Would she see it? Would she notice it? Would she respond to it?

What… was I doing. The wine was old, had turned slightly, but still warmed my mind. Holding the glass was helping me… maybe not helping me in the right way. Why did I want to send a note to this girl? I was 40. She was 17. She was a junior in high school. And I… loved her. So I wrote "Love" and then, before I lost the nerve, I wrote "always," because I knew, wherever she went, whatever she became, I would love the person I was giving this to, this book, this part of me. And I couldn't follow such a closing with the formal "Mr. Dimitri" could I? Or even the more casual A.D. of that yellow sticky note I had left on her story.  We had become friends, and friends can sign "Love," and friends can sign their given name. "August," I wrote. "Love always, August," I said out loud in my empty house. I imagined, for a moment, hearing Grace say my given name, longing to hear it from her lips.

I blew on the page to help it dry so I could close the book. I would give it to her… when? There was no rush, really, and yet it felt urgent to me to do so. I felt 17 myself, as if I were sending her a note in class, hoping the teacher wouldn't catch me. Was this something to be caught? What would Chris say? Chris would say, "Gus, _what are you doing?" Go away, Chris, I thought. __What was I doing? What did I hope to accomplish? I just thought she needed to know someone loved her. Someone saw who she was. Me. And she would know from my inscription that I knew, and that I cared._

I went back to the kitchen, poured myself another glass, finishing the bottle. Brought it back to my room and read the English Chekhov, my Russian was rusty, stayed up till 3 in the morning and read every one of those stories in the book I was giving to Grace.

I fell asleep reading the book in bed. I had slept with the book, holding the book in my hand. Would I ever hold Grace's hand? Walking down the street? That was not something that could happen, and I knew it, and I knew I had better judgment. I put the book in my valise.

Friday. Class came and went, I didn't give it to her then. Lunch would have been good, but our time was shorter, as I met with both Russell and Lisa first. 

"I did what you said," she announced. "Left my story lying around."

"And?"

"And I think it got covered up by the Sunday paper," she said.

"Oh, well."

"But actually, it's good. Because it's getting me used to the idea, and I think I want my mom to read it, and she's always the one who cleans the papers up and all."

We discussed "Voices" and "Instrument." I said, "I notice you've been exploring more with different points of view describing the same situation."

"Yeah, well, when you gave us that character sketch assignment, it made me think," she said. "I kind of like figuring out how the different characters might look at the same story, to try and understand the truth of what happened."

"Like _Rashomon_," I said.

"Like what?"

"_Rashomon_. It's a classic film by Kurosawa, based on a short story collection by this Japanese writer Ryunosuke Akutagawa."

"I never heard of it. Or him – or her," she said.

"Both hims – author and director. _Rashomon_'s a classic! You must see it. And read the story, too, but after. It's one of my all-time favorite movies. You know – I think it's showing at that repertoire theater near Northwestern next week. We should go."

"Okay," she said.

I realized that _we_ couldn't go, it had to be school-related somehow, and I quickly added, "I think Russell and Lisa would appreciate it as well – you're the creative writers, and _Rashomon_ really makes you think about point of view and what is truth. I'll mention it to them. It's great to be able to see it in a movie theater, rather than on a TV screen. Especially with the subtitles."

"I've never seen a Japanese movie, other than, you know, animé."

"_Rashomon_ is a little different from animé," I laughed. "Hang on. I think I have the theater calendar with me." I shuffled through my valise and found it. Next to the Chekhov book. "Yes, next Tuesday, at 7. I'll tell Russell and Lisa, and we can make it a field trip."

"I can let Russell and Lisa know," she volunteered. "Tuesday? I'll tell them."

I should be letting them know. But I left it to her. "Great," I said. "Then it's all set."

The bell rang as she stood to leave, and the book remained with me, waiting to be given to Grace. I brought it home, and it stayed on my bedside table until Tuesday morning.


	18. Countdown

_Life beyond Backstory has kept me occupied these past few weeks. And will continue to do so, as I write in the wee hours of the night. Which somehow seems to fit Dimitri's persona._

_Feedback has been much appreciated (was that a use of the question-raising passive! By whom, eh?). It is true that it inspires and encourages me to continue writing this story. Because if no one is reading this, why bother to post it? _I've_ got the story in my head. But oh, the upcoming chapters..._

**Chapter 18: Countdown**

Each day, the last week I worked as a teacher at Upton Sinclair, each hour, each minute,  mattered. Of course at the time I didn't know it was a week of lasts, the last Monday I would teach Literature: Craft and Critique, the last Tuesday, the final time I would discuss Gardner's choice of Grendel as a protagonist, the concept of creating novels based on novels, literary fan fiction. The last pop quiz. The one I never did hand back.

At the close of the school year, the last week is usually a week of farewells, of closure, finals, summations, endings. Discussions of summer and future plans, with a predetermined last day. But I didn't know it was my last week, or even my last day, and there were no goodbyes. Except for one. 

*****

All weekend, I kept the Chekhov book by my bed, read it, reread it. And, for the first time, I indulged, and allowed myself to fantasize. I had held myself in check so stringently all these months. Opening some doors, I know, that shouldn't have been touched. But I never let myself, for lack of a better word,  sexualize Grace. Grace was Grace, she made my heart beat a little louder when she entered the room, invariably seeing her brought a smile to my face. But I knew that if I allowed myself to think of kissing her, it would be impossible to face her objectively and asexually in class. As it was, I was not doing a very good job, lately,  of maintaining a teacherly objectivity in the classroom. 

But that weekend, I felt reckless. And lonely, and... something else. And I gave in to fantasies, telling myself they were in my head, my head alone, they need never go beyond the borders of my mind. I'd leave the house and they'd stay behind, up in my room, locked safely away from me.

I pictured the two of us on some remote mountainside, far from everyone who mattered. A cheesy Harlequin romance setting, but I didn't care. I pictured lifting my hand to touch the delicate garnet pendant she sometimes wore, allowing my fingers to rest against her bare collar bone, to move my hand to the back of her neck, to feel the soft wispy hairs at the nape, to pull her toward me and feel the length of her body against the length of mine. To smell the clean, herbal scent of her shampoo as I pulled her close. And as I thought of her there, that night, in my bed, I felt passion, a sensation I hadn't experienced in so many years, that I didn't understand, at first, what I was feeling.

I had never expected to be alone, all alone, at 40. It was not how I had pictured my life right now, and I felt as if I were running along on a gerbil wheel, the sensation of moving forward, exerting myself, but going nowhere. Thinking of Grace lifted me outside of myself, gave me a strange kind of hope for change, for future brightness. Around Grace, with her enthusiasm and insight, _I_ felt enthusiastic and insightful and funny and fun to be with. I felt as if I had something to offer another person beyond what I could offer as a teacher, on a personal level, and that it would be cherished.

The weekend before the last week was a last one too; Friday was the last time I went out with Jerry and Rene – just the three of us this time. And my sister April... things changed between us after, though not permanently. Saturday I had dinner with April, Liam, and the kids, who always insist I tell them a "made-up" story. Distracted by a created world of ravens and doves, cooing and cawing and avian royalty. But again, at night, Grace came, bidden and unbidden, to my bedside mind, and I gave in and relished my indecent thoughts. Thoughts they would remain, I told myself. Thoughts by themselves were okay. No one would know.

*****

The book went from my bedside to my valise on Monday morning. I felt its added weight as I carried it around. Opportunities came, I hesitated, opportunities went. I thought of the Chekhov collection as Grace's already; by not giving it to her, it was as if I was not returning something I had borrowed that was rightfully hers. The book, or the declaration?

I knew Tuesday had to be the day. And I knew I had to watch myself. We had been discussing the Grendel of John Gardner's novel of the same name, and Grendel as he originally appeared in Beowulf. The class had started out animatedly enough, but gradually participation waned. There's little more annoying to a teacher than the realization that your class has not done the work they were supposed to. I thought of the last surprise quiz I had given them and the pitiful results. Still, I continued, and asked, "Why re-tell the story of _Beowulf_ from the monster's point of view?"

Silence, and then both Grace and Alexa, who was sitting just in behind her, raised their hands. I may have imagined it, but it felt to me, then, as if Alexa were daring me not to call on her. Her raised hand was almost a challenge, and I thought of the way she had been scrutinizing me lately, as if she were memorizing details. Observing, as some brilliant teacher had advised her to do. So I pointed to her and said, "Yes, Alexa?" I pulled my chair up and sat in front of the class, waiting for her to speak. I saw a look of annoyed surprise flash through Grace's eyes, but this was not a private tutoring session. I could not appear to be favoring Grace.

Alexa was not a great speaker, perhaps the reason why she chose to work behind the scenes in theatre. Awkwardly, she said,  "Um, maybe he just liked Grendel as a character. I mean, maybe when he read the original _Beowulf_ he just sort of…identified…with, you know—" 

I really did think she was finished, though she left the thought dangling. I waited a moment for her to continue, and when the pause lengthened, I said, "No, I don't know. Explain it to me."

She opened her mouth, and I was prepared for a few more seconds of Alexa's stilted, banal explanation. But Grace jumped in. And spoke succinctly and clearly and assertively. "Well, maybe he felt like a monster," she said, looking around. "I mean, sometimes you do, sometimes you just feel like a monster."

Our eyes met. Flash of images – that conversation we had about her stepsister during the auditions. The indulgences in my head this past weekend. I smiled. "Exactly," I said. As if it were just the two of us in the room, having the discussion. But it wasn't, and Alexa's voice cut through my momentary reverie.

"Um, that's exactly what I was about to say only you cut me off," she asserted.

If all was as innocent and objective as it should have been, her accusation would have seemed merely humorous, and I would laughingly apologize. Instead, I weakly protested, "Oh, well, forgive me, I know it might seem like I was cutting you off, but what I was trying to do was to—" And there I was once more, graceless under pressure, floundering for an excuse, when the bell rang. Gratefully, I shifted gears, remembering the thought I had had earlier during the lull of participation. I spoke loudly, to be heard over the end-of-class shuffles and noise, "Okay, so finish _Grendel_. And listen, I know I said no more pop quizzes. That was before I saw your scores from the last one. So, expect the unexpected." 

I stood, returned to my desk, and gathered my papers together. I  opened my valise and put them in, and saw the book. I had to give it to Grace today. Now. I wanted her to have it before we went to see _Rashomon. And I didn't want to analyze why. But how to get it to her? Walk over to her? But then, fortuitously, she approached my desk. Before she could say anything, I handed her the book. "Oh, uh, here," I said quietly. "It's that book I was telling you about." She reached for it; our fingers brushed. Flash of a paper wine cup. Flash of a car ride. Flash of electricity. For the briefest second, we held the book together, a connection joining us physically, and then I released the book into her hands._


	19. Plans

_Hello, Dear Readers. Thank you so much for commenting and enjoying this story – makes it worth writing, knowing there are at least half a dozen folks out there following _Backstory_. A baker's half dozen, that is. Warms the cockles of me 'eart_._ Seven. Not an unreasonable number. Grace_Dimitri_fan came through, and I just want to add thanks and bouquets of virtual flowers for transcribing all those scenes that allow me to incorporate dialogue from the show as accurately as possible. You are incredible!_

_This is an angsty chapter, but then, D is an angsty kind of guy, and I'm discovering that I love angst in ffiction, even when it borders on the cliché. Angst captures our hearts and affections. _

**Chapter 19: Plans**

"Oh!" Grace said, her voice happy. "Thanks. So, about tonight... I guess I'll just meet you at your house and then—" But now I became acutely aware of Alexa examining us, straining to hear every word. The word "covert" flashed into my head, awareness not to be admitted then, though now it doesn't matter. That the planned evening activity was not one open to all students. That it was not, really, a class activity.

"Yes Alexa?" I said pointedly. Grace stopped talking.

Alexa walked up to the two of us . "Oh, I was just wondering... are you still accepting stories for extra credit?"

I couldn't look at Grace now, had to play the impartial teacher, and it made me still more painfully aware of the clandestine direction my relationship with Grace had and was taking. "Absolutely," I said.

"Great," Alexa said, and continued to stand there, looking from me to Grace. She had asked her question, but she was not moving along. She was waiting. For something. Pointedly.

I couldn't pretend further, I couldn't talk further, other than saying a quick, "If you'll excuse me, ladies." And I left. I had to leave. 

Behind me, I heard Alexa say, "What's the book?"

My stomach constricted, and I almost turned back – to do what? So I continued out of the classroom, hearing Grace's evasive response, "Oh, just this book he said I could borrow." And then I was out of earshot. My heart thumped in my chest as I walked down the hall and I felt lightheaded, dizzy. Even without opening it, Grace knew the book was important, was more than the usual bit of recommended reading. Soon she'd know for sure the Chekhov was not a loaner.

The book was no longer in my possession. Things were totally out of my hands. I wonder, now, what I had hoped to accomplish. The book was the catalyst to a finale, but even without that, something would have happened, something would have culminated between Grace and myself. I relive that week, ascribing different emotions to each day. Monday, innocent longing. Tuesday, anticipation of response. Wednesday naïve hidden joy on borrowed time, Thursday, crashing down.

I gave her the book. The book into which I had signed a very personal inscription, with a signature that revealed feelings inappropriate for a teacher to have for his student. On the one hand, I knew that, I knew what I was risking, for I had attached my name to that signature, and the book, found by the wrong person, could be incriminating. Would be damning. I was putting my job, my profession in jeopardy. For what?

I wondered, later, if it was selfishness. I'd like to think it wasn't, I'd like to think it was selflessness. Because I knew, although she had not said it in words, how Grace felt about me. That feelings were there. And rather than nip them in the bud, ignore them and do what I could to discourage them, as I had with Alexa, I did the opposite. More than the opposite. I encouraged those feelings. I returned them. I confirmed them with my fountain pen.

I think, in the beginning, I had a mix of compassion and wonder regarding Grace. Wonder, because she was one of those students who is brighter and better and truly good at English, loved to write and to read and to interpret what she read. The ideal English student. Yet she was a little on the outside, not fully integrated, bright can mean too bright, and I identified with that. And I felt pain from her, and wanted to help her hone her strengths as a means of escape from those elements at home and in her life that were causing her pain. Hence the compassion.

Except that somewhere along the way I fell in love, unexpectedly, terribly, wrongly, irrevocably. And for so long, I kept my distance, and even tried to alienate myself from her, make her not want to like me, except every time I did something like that, I sensed the hurt, and had to erase it. Like that fateful afternoon in the car, that car ride of almosts.

Then came the time after that ride. Sweet, easy, but things now could not really stay at that level, could they? Maybe they could, maybe it wasn't enough for me, because I needed to know, needed to declare, needed her to know.

And then what? What did I expect from Grace after I gave her the book? I think, on some level, I hoped for a Victorian exchange of affections – I gave her Chekhov stories, she'd send me a volume of poetry with certain stanzas underlined, I'd respond in a similarly erudite way, and what was between us would develop slowly and surely and literarily. Romantic, Platonic, but Unrealistic. Because I had grown increasingly aware of Grace physically, noticing the change of necklaces she'd wear, how she styled her hair, the fact that she invariably wore pants to school, favored solid, darker colors; safe, conservative clothes. How clear her skin was, how sometimes her auburn hair would catch the light as she turned her head, revealing glints of copper, gold. How she would lift her hands when making a point emphatically, and her fingers seemed surprisingly delicate, yet solid. How she'd moisten her lips as she spoke, as if to smooth her words as they left her mouth.

The rest of that Tuesday remains a blur. I got through my afternoon classes on autopilot while I kept trying to picture Grace opening the book, feeling that antique leather between her hands, touching the uneven edges of the pages, coming across the inscription. Where would she be when she read it? What would she think? Would I know that evening, when we, and Russell and Lisa, would watch _Rashomon_?

It occurred to me I had never verified the number going to the movie – Grace had said she'd tell Russell and Lisa, I hadn't heard from them, or mentioned it to them. Grace had started to say, before I saw Alexa watching, "Should _I come to your house?" No mention of others; and I hoped there would be no others. My necessary departure from the classroom left the decision on meeting for the movie unresolved. _

I had ridden my bicycle that day. As I walked toward the bike racks, I heard a motor idling and I looked up. Grace, in her mother's SUV. She rolled down the front passenger window, and called out, "Can I give you a lift?" I walked over, feeling my mouth stretch into a silly grin.

"Thanks, but I have my bike. Another time, maybe." I leaned into the open window, saw Grace comfortably holding the steering wheel of the oversized car. My hybrid could practically fit in the trunk of this one. But then, I didn't have four kids with assorted friends needing rides. It's easy to be ecologically correct when you're single. "You look good behind the wheel," I added, and she blushed, which hadn't been my intention. Yet my pulse quickened as the color rose in her cheeks. A snippet of oft-quoted poetry slipped into my mind, with an addition, and lines followed. Hers was a name meant to be incorporated into poems, hers was a face to inspire poetry. The words surfaced, organized themselves, and lodged permanently in my mind.

_Beauty is Truth is Grace  
Known, when I gazed upon her face.  
A gaze too long, not long enough,  
The mask to shed, aged skin to slough.  
To speak to know to then embrace;  
Revealing Truth, revealing Grace._

But she recovered from her blush, and said, "Well, you know, I'm just a natural-born driver." Grace appraised me, as I leaned against the door, framed by the open window. "Anyway, so do you." My turn to blush, but I met and held her gaze, surrounded by the safety of the school building, the chasm of the passenger seat between us. She continued, "So, about tonight –"

"The movie starts at 7, so why don't you come by around 6:30? It's just a 10-minute drive, and we can leave from my house." I stepped back from the car. No reason not to meet at the movies. But we could all go in one car, no one would have to wait alone at the theatre. I rationalized. All of us.

I biked home feeling giddy. The prospect of going to the movies with Grace, even with Russell and Lisa as inadvertent, unknowing chaperones, gave me a thrill. To be able to share with her one of my favorite films, a way for her to know more of me, of who I was. I found I was whistling in the cool afternoon air, the tune of "Heart Like a Wheel" being lifted from my lips as I cycled into a soft wind..

At home, to the scratchy sounds of an early, early Joni Mitchell record, _Song to a Seagull_, I finished writing up the pop quiz I had warned the students about, hoping I'd get a better response this time, better demonstration of what they were learning from my teaching. For some reason, this out-of-print album I had found in a used record store 20 years ago had become my quiz-writing muse. Not knowing, then, it would be the final time I would be preparing such a quiz. My curriculum for my classes varied from year to year, following a same general theme, but tests, quizzes, and essay assignments changed, because I would rotate the books used. And pop quizzes were always new to minimize inevitable cheating.

"Describe the significance of Gardner's Grendel as sympathetic monster," I typed. "How does it differ from Beowulf's Grendel?" Along those lines. I printed it out and stuck the quiz in my valise, ready to run copies in the office the next morning. Which would be the last time I would use the Sinclair photocopy machine, but I didn't know that then, either. How odd, to feel nostalgic and sentimental about a temperamental photocopier, just the routine of seeing Estelle, the school secretary looking anything but busy as teachers came and went, ready to extract the latest gossip as we came through the office.

Preparing the quiz helped keep my mind off anticipating the evening, and wondering about my inscription, and berating myself for giving the book to Grace in the first place. I fixed myself an omelet with some diced mushrooms and slices of Chabichou; it's lovely when it melts, too. I felt like having a real meal, not just leftovers, and eating this cheese made me feel a connection with Grace, something we shared.

I was cleaning the dishes when I heard Grace's knock on the back door, what had become her usual way of entering my home.

"It's open!" I called. 


	20. A Modest Proposal

_Hello, Dear Readers. Love your feedback, thank you, thank you! This chapter is a tad long (though there have been longer ones); thought of splitting it into two, just to, you know, draaag things out even longer. But then I thought, what the heck. It was one continuous scene on the show, after all; this interpretation of the action is just filled with all that interior monologue, internal reflection kind of stuff._

_As always, lots of feedback makes for a happy author, which makes for more chapters coming sooner. In my musings, I wonder if there are readers out there who've never commented, never let me know they are there. You can be anonymous, you know. Just speak up, speak up._

**Chapter 20: A Modest Proposal**

"Hey," Grace said as she came in. 

"Hey," I responded, glancing at her, and then quickly turned to concentrate on the dishes. Grace looked different tonight. She wore a skirt, a short, black, shiny skirt. For the first time, I noticed her legs, usually hidden under pants. They were muscular, shapely in black tights. And her hair was waved, instead of straight. She looked... dressed up.

I liked how she usually looked, but the thought of her putting time and effort into her appearance before this time we'd have together gave me a small thrill. Those little signs. And I can have that still, that moment, that time with her in my kitchen, in spite of everything that happened after, I can remember that time and smile. Though still she had said nothing about the book, and I wondered if she had even opened it yet. Casually, I said, "Just want to finish these up." And turned up the water, sure she could hear the loud beating of my heart, as I pictured her getting ready, changing her clothes, crimping her hair, putting on makeup.

"I'm actually early," she said, removing her jacket. Underneath, she wore a sweater of a brighter shade of blue than she normally wore in school, a sweater that clung, revealing an attractive figure. She looked... great, actually. Not the Grace I was used to, but Grace about to embark on a date. Straining to keep my face in neutral, I turned back to the dishes and I heard her move toward the refrigerator, another habit she had fallen into over the past couple months. I enjoyed her familiarity with my house, that we had established a routine of sorts together here.

It occurred to me that it was dinner time, and she might not have eaten yet. "You hungry?" I said, hearing her open the fridge.

"Not really," she said, and I thought I detected an odd note in her voice, as if she were about to say something. I waited, and then she added, "So, it turns out Lisa and Russell can't come."

My heart leapt. I froze for a beat, then turned to look at her, and she looked at me warily from behind the open door of the fridge. Poised, waiting to gauge my reaction to this information.

Her eyes went from the refrigerator to mine, an unreadable challenge there. Would I delve deeper into the reason for their absence? Would I accept it at face value? Well, I couldn't exactly shout "Yippee!" although that's how I felt inside. There was this need, all along, as we grew closer, and more comfortable with each other, to pretend it was all up front, that everything we – I – was doing was normal and within propriety. 

The charade I must continue. This was a student class trip. Not every student could come. I would be mildly surprised, but accepting. I monitored my voice carefully and said, dispassionately, with maybe just a touch of forced surprise, "Oh. Okay." And left it at that as I finished drying the bowl I was holding. I moved to put it away and jumped to safer ground, the role of teacher. "So," I said, "I've been thinking about  your story."

That obstacle surmounted, Grace pulled something out of my refrigerator, exclaiming, "Oh my God, you should throw this out."

"Feel free," I said without turning around, finishing the last dish.  "I've got a great idea for your ending," I continued. I  heard the fridge door shut, and turned as Grace discarded a bag of putrefying greens. She held her hands up, looking for something to wipe them on, and I stepped toward her, holding out the dishtowel. She wiped her hands as I continued to dry mine, another connection. We were standing barely a foot apart now. No other students would be coming tonight. Just Grace and me.

She looked up at me and said, "But I already sent it out to that place."

Her story. I remembered my days of publishing, of still altering poems even after the book had come out – I had my own revised versions of half my published poems.  "So what -- it doesn't mean you have to stop working on it," I said, a new concept to a budding writer.

She stepped back half a step, but still gazed up at me as she said,  "Okay... but I thought…" she paused to organize that thought. "I mean, I like the ending. Everything ties together."

Always the challenge for novice writers – wanting everything to be neat. It's the messiness that makes for better, more powerful stories, I think. "Yeah," I nodded at her words, but continued, "It all ties together maybe, maybe a little _too_ much."

She took this in, a challenge to something she had thought was finished. "Oh," she said, processing. I watched her face, seeing the thoughts digesting, noticing the makeup she wore tonight, her lips shiny with gloss, her lashes thickened with mascara. I wondered again if she had opened the Chekhov book yet; I saw no clue from her eyes that she had. Without realizing it, I must have been searching her face too obviously, because she said, stepping back, "What're you...?"

Embarrassed, I quickly said the first thing that came into my head, looking at her eyes, "Oh, your eye makeup's smudged," touching my eye. Not that it was, but I couldn't really explain my staring.

"Oh shoot," she said; I had succeeded in making her self-conscious, unnecessarily. Because it made me self-conscious, about us, as well. She turned away and walked toward the door that lead to the living room.

"Where are you going?" I asked. "Come on."

Without turning, she said, "I have to find a mirror."

My comment on her makeup now sounded inappropriately intimate to me, and I felt a sudden urgency to leave, to get to the movie, to restore the status quo of teacher-student nothing improper relationship. I looked for my coat and said, "Well, there's a mirror in my car."

Grace still hadn't moved. "No, I…" she began, and then she turned to face me, a determined set to her jaw. She remained standing where she was.

 "Come on," I said, and found my coat under hers on a chair.

"I just realized something," she said,

We had to leave. Now. A sense of foreboding, that something was about to happen, something I both wanted and wanted to avoid, something inevitable that I was trying to forestall. "We can't miss the beginning," I said firmly, putting on my coat. But then I added, "What did you realize?"

Her voice held steady, she said, "That I've never seen the rest of your house before."

 "Yeah, you have," I replied quickly, not sure where she was going.

And then, "But I've never seen where you sleep."

I felt immobilized, floating, unreal, suspended in time. Was this her response to my inscription? Had I anticipated this? Did I really think that glances and camaraderie would be enough for her, or for me, for that matter? How could they be, ultimately, after I gave her that book, after I let her into my heart, and let her know she was there?

"Grace..." I said, helplessly. We couldn't do this.

"Well I haven't," she repeated, challenging me. "And I really want to."

She stood across from me in my kitchen, a blend of dichotomies in the flesh, at once vulnerable and determined, so very young and innocent, yet womanly and worldly. And so lovely, her declaration of desire touching my heart, warming my soul, and, yes, tempting my body, this assertion of desire for me. Stepping fully through that door I had unlocked months ago, the one we had slowly been opening together, the one I opened wide with my feelings put in writing, in a gift of value, in a gift of love. Yet still she did not mention the gift, the inscription; perhaps this attempt at seduction came wholly on her own? But even without reading my words, she had a foundation for her actions right now. I had stopped trying to pull back, hadn't I? She did come by my house, we did talk, although maybe not for hours, since we never had that much time together. This evening, this night, would be the greatest amount of time we had spent alone with one another. 

But even without all that happened later that final week, did I really think there could be more such "dates," such one-on-one meetings? I kept pushing things between us. After the play. In the car. In the book. How far would I have taken things, I wonder now? And I wondered then, determined to keep this evening as mentor-student as possible. I looked away from her, silent.

Into the silence, she said, her voice cracking slightly, but no less determined, "If you laugh at me right now I swear I'll never speak to you again." Because she knew that would matter to me. She had seen how I reacted the last time she gave me a silent treatment. Not well. Or maybe too well, for her.

Softly, I said, "I'm not laughing." But I didn't say anything else, either. I didn't say the things I should have said then, the direct _no this cannot be_. I never said those direct nos to Grace when I should have. Perhaps to our detriment, perhaps to our benefit.

And because I did not reject her outright, yet, Grace continued, "So…can we just... not go to the movies?" 

I was past the point of doing all the things I should have done before to discourage this relationship. But I could still exercise some restraint. As it turned out, I might as well have led her up those stairs, taken her in my arms, loved her. We would have had that, at least, to remember. But the teacher in me still prevailed, I know for the best.

"No," I said. "We can't." I couldn't meet her eyes as I said this, because I knew if I did she'd see the insincerity there, masking the desire.

But Grace, ever determined, with that strength of character I so admired, wouldn't accept that no. She walked toward me, gesturing.  "Please. Okay, I know I'm doing this really stupidly—"

Hardly. "See where I sleep?" No, not stupid at all. And I shouldn't have been surprised that she might respond this way to my declaration. For, although she never mentioned it, what else could this have been but her answer? I had to be honest with myself, at least. I had been flirting with her, yes, but ambiguously. But there was nothing ambiguous about writing "Love always." I could convince myself otherwise, I could probably counter with an argument that I meant paternally, as a friend, as a mentor, but my actions demonstrated otherwise. And, especially after that car ride where I almost kissed her, where she almost kissed me, I had to be careful how I interacted with her. I interrupted her as she walked closer to me. And I stooped to patronization:  "No, you are doing this alarmingly well, and I'm extremely honored, however—"

Of course I shouldn't have said that. Because that made it sound as if it were all her, having a crush on me, as if I hadn't contributed anything to what was happening between us. And she knew that. She exclaimed,  her face animated with annoyance, "Oh God don't say that!" at such a hackneyed response. I was silenced, momentarily, and she searched for words. "No... just... please—"

But I couldn't let her continue. I was not going to sleep with Grace, I was not going to show her where I slept. "Grace," I began, but she made one last attempt.

 "Okay? I've given this a lot of thought—" 

I raised my hand like a crossing guard; I had to stop the words. I couldn't let her say more. "Grace, listen to me, okay?" And now she did stop talking, the animation gone from her face, her demeanor deflating. What could I say? Not interested? I don't want to, I don't want you? All lies, and she'd know. But while I could write an inscription to her, could sign it with love and my name, I could not say these things out loud. I couldn't, just then, still reeling from her offer, an offer I could not accept, articulate a rejection that included acceptance. I'd love to show you my room, I'd love to skip the movie, but, but... And so I retreated to the safety of the movie, the movie I wanted to share with her. Because as much as I wanted to take Grace into my arms, embrace her, I also wanted to _do_ things with her, go to a movie, go out to dinner, hang out at a jazz club. And we couldn't do those things any more than we could sleep together. Except for that night. That night, we had a vague pretense that had enabled a legitimate tryst. "We really can't be late," I said.

Silence. Arms crossed against me. Would she now refuse to go to the movie altogether? The though filled me with a surprising emptiness, this evening planned, this time  alone together. Would she now reject what I was able to offer her? "Come on," I coaxed, and stepped toward her. "It's a ground-breaking film. It's part of your _education_." I attempted an encouraging smile, but still she said nothing. I tried to articulate the importance of the film, hoping through that she'd understand the importance, to me, that she still come. "See, Kurosawa takes one event and he plays it over and over and over from four different points of view. You can really see how each person has their own view of what happened."

Her voice shaky, Grace finally spoke. "I made a total fool of myself just now, didn't I?"

Hardly. More the other way around. "Well, that's not how I see it," I said, though I did not tell her how I _did_ see it. "Come on." I picked up her jacket from the chair and held it up. "Let's go to the movies, okay?" She didn't say no, she didn't say she wouldn't go. She turned her back toward me, close. Her nearness, I could smell her shampoo, and a mild fragrance, perfume perhaps. I savored the feel of her arms gliding into the empty sleeves, risking a comforting caress near her shoulders, a platonic touch that I knew I would remember, the solidity of herself beneath the rough fabric. I longed to keep my hands on her arms, to turn her toward me, to hold her. And to feel those arms around me, holding me. Protecting each other. From each other? She was so quiet, now. Had I stifled all communication between us? "You okay?" I asked. 

Distantly, she said, "Yeah." My hands were still on her sleeves, and I made an attempt to pat them reassuringly. Except what would the reassurance be? I want you but won't let myself have you? You're safe and sexless with me? She didn't respond to the slight touch in any way, moving neither away from or toward me. She just said, in that same distant voice, "I am a little hungry though." She started to zip her jacket, but left it connected just  at the bottom. Reluctantly, I removed my hands from her arms.

Gently, I said,  "Well, then, I'll buy you some popcorn." Sighing, she turned and walked out the door. I followed behind her, wishing I could somehow recapture the easiness of when she first arrived, of our conversation about her story. A cool breeze ruffled the crimps in her hair. A reminder that spring was still not fully entrenched. "Wait a second," I called.

Ahead of me, she stopped. I stepped up to her, looked at her. I saw her open jacket. "It's still pretty cold out," I said, and reached down to zip her up. My hands, so close to her; I was sad that this was all I could offer her right now, raising the zipper over her abdomen, the curve of her breasts, all the way to her neck. She stood docilely as I did this, watching my hand, and it felt at once both chaste and intimate, and I hoped she could see the care in my face, and maybe the regret, and also the passion, the joy, at being with her there, then, for an evening. I smiled at her, and her eyes cleared, her lips lifted imperceptibly. I would interpret this as a smile.

I unlocked the car with the remote and walked around to the driver's side as Grace got into the passenger seat. In unison, we strapped in. I started the car, and we drove toward _Rashomon._


	21. Moving Pictures

_Well, Dear Readers, I know we all were wondering, at least I was, _What Happened Next?_ Or rather, _What Happened In Between?_ As in, what happened in between Alexa seeing Grace and Dimitri drive off into the moonlight and Mr. Dimitri handing out that pop quiz the next morning? Several hours are unaccounted for. What really went down at _Rashomon_? Here's one account of that time. Of course,_ each person has their own view of what happened.__

_Thanks for all your great feedback – good points made, good to hear your differing takes on the same scenes._

_Oh – warning. There are _Rashomon_ spoilers here. Excellent movie, by the way._

**Chapter 21: Moving Pictures**

Grace was quiet until we reached the first red light, and then she spoke, staring straight ahead. "Mr. Dimitri?"

I was jarred hearing the formality of  my professional name. Especially considering what she had just proposed. But who could blame her? That's what she called me, her teacher. I had just given her a speech about her education. I was August only in an inscription I didn't know if she had read. "Yes, Grace?"

"We are friends now, aren't we? I know you said we weren't, before, but we were then, I think, and we are now." I sensed her shifting in her seat; I turned my head and saw that she was looking at me, searching my face for truth. I shifted my eyes back toward the road.

The light turned green, but I didn't accelerate. Gracious honesty. _We were then_, when I said we weren't, when I said we couldn't be, and I thought of the ease of being with her, my enjoyment of our limited time together. "Yes, Grace," I said, again, as I started to drive through the intersection. I could give her that. "Yes, we were. We are friends. I think we've been friends since the beginning."

"And you said we couldn't be."

"I... did. I was, I am, trying to do the right thing, Grace." Silence. "I believe I mentioned circumstances."

"Circumstances?"

"Who I am, who you are. I said that if circumstances were different... things between us could be different." If I weren't your teacher, if you weren't 17, if I were so much younger, if you were so much older. If, if, if.

"But they didn't change, and we're friends anyway. So, why...?" She let the unfinished question hang in the car.

"Why... are we on our way to the movies and not staying home exploring my house?"

I glanced toward her and a street lamp illuminated a half-smile. "Yes. Because, I don't think I'm misreading you."

I pulled into a parking spot near the theatre. The movie started in 10 minutes. I honestly did want to see the movie with Grace, share it with her, and I decided to say that. "Grace, what we are now is probably more than we should be. Even going to a movie like this, which I think you know I wanted to do. Believe it or not, I want the experience of sharing this with you as much as I might want anything else, and anything else is not possible."

"But – " She stopped when she saw my face. I was looking at her directly, trying to speak honestly and forcefully and appropriately.

"I don't think you really understand that, Grace, and maybe it's asking too much of you to try. But think about it. How could I be with you like, like you suggested, and then go back to class as an impartial teacher? Already --" And I stopped speaking, couldn't say any more, and I looked away from her, took a deep breath, feeling my voice choke.

The question hung there and she looked across the space between us, over the boundaries I had clearly drawn. Finally, she spoke. "Shouldn't we be getting to the movie?"

I released my breath slowly, aware that she now sensed the tumult I was feeling. She smiled at me and continued, "I don't want to miss the beginning, right?"

We got out of the car. At the theatre, I bought the tickets. "Weren't you hungry?" I asked as we passed the concession stand. "They use real melted butter on their popcorn here."

"Really? I thought everyone used that fake yellow oil stuff."

I pointed to the sticks of butter melting in a pan behind the counter. "Let's get a large," I suggested. "I'm a little hungry too." Grace shrugged, but took the bucket of butter-drizzled popcorn as I grabbed a fistful of napkins. The theatre was half empty, but Grace kept walking forward until she reached the fifth row. The row I always sat in. She turned to me. "I hope you don't mind sitting close," she said.

"This is the row I sit in," I responded. "If I sit further away, I might as well be –"

"Watching TV."

"Exactly." We grinned at each other, and sat down. I handed her the napkins while I shrugged off my coat. In turn, she passed me the bucket of popcorn as she unzipped her jacket, and my eyes were drawn again to that zipper, remembering the rise of her breasts as I had zipped it up a short while ago. I watched her hands, sturdy, smaller than I would have thought, with clear nail polish carefully applied to her fingernails. I balanced the bucket of popcorn on my lap and held onto her sleeves as she slipped out of her jacket, again enjoying the feel of her arms underneath. Just... the closeness. I noticed anew the tight blue sweater she had been wearing. The way it clung to her breasts, melded smoothly with her short black leather skirt.

We had just settled into our seats when the movie began. No coming attractions at this repertoire theatre, just the movie we came to see. I hadn't seen _Rashomon for over a decade, and the screen filled with black-and-white images that were strikingly evocative of color. I held the popcorn on my knee, and periodically Grace would reach over and take a handful. Then came the famous continuous three-minute sequence, the peasant recalling his version of the story, and the sense of foreboding as he walks through the brightly lit woods, the sharp contrasts between sun and shade, the tall grasses and leaves brushing against him. The scarf in the bushes._

It is a decades-old debate whose version of the truth is the most compelling in _Rashomon_, but this introduction by the peasant, who discovered the evidence of the crime, has the added element of dread. Even though I knew what happened, had seen this scene so many times, it still filled me with apprehension. Grace clutched at my arm, alarmed at the suspense.

Grace's hand on my arm felt grounding. She didn't let go when the peasant finished, gripped it harder when the bandit began, the first to confess to the murder. His gleeful madness is melodramatic by today's standards, yet disturbing nonetheless. And there was the scene of the torture and the rape, or the acquiescence. I shifted my arm so that we were holding hands, told myself I was just holding a friend's hand during the scary part of a movie. Grace gripped my hand harder during the thief's demented account. A movie fifty years old that still has the power to move and affect people as a period piece that seems not at all dated. I was so happy, right then, I remember that now, I hold that happiness, sitting next to Grace, our knees an inch apart, hands clasped together, staring straight ahead at the screen.

I stole a glance at her, felt her small, smooth hand in mine, restrained a desire to stroke her thumb with mine, to steal a caress. Because that would shatter the charade, the game that we were merely holding hands to ward off cinematic dread, I was just reassuring her, helping her through a scary part. 

The bandit finished his account, and the wronged wife began to speak. Grace loosened her grip on my hand, and I opened my hand, already missing the comforting pressure of her fingers. But she left her hand there, and after a minute held my hand again, softly this time, gently, and I curled my fingers around hers. It was just a hand, I rationalized to myself. We both stared straight ahead at the screen, the hands between us having nothing to do with us, nothing to do with the spark I felt. The bucket of popcorn rested between us on both our knees. With our opposite hands we each ate popcorn, slowly, a puffed kernel at a time.

And then the end. Four stories told, the truth is what we choose it to be, balanced by an odd redemption at Rashomon Gate. Hope even in a hopeless world. As the credits came on, our hands fell apart. Grace licked her buttery fingers, and I passed her a napkin as I used one myself to removed the grease from my fingers.  

Side by side we left the theatre. I felt self-conscious of the space between us now, aware of her hand dangling near mine over the sidewalk, empty as mine was. I opened the passenger door for her by hand, and Grace got into my car, looking up at me as I shut the door once she was seated. Her fourth and final ride with me. Did I think there would be others? Did I think there would be more movies, more popcorn, more lifts home from school? Or did I realize somehow things would have to end, that this would be the last time? I had stepped so far over so many lines, but I couldn't stop myself because I didn't want to. That night, I couldn't think beyond each minute.

"That movie was amazing," Grace said as I started up the car. "Really. It really makes you think. Because each character was a believable witness – even the bandit guy, in his way."

"Right – so which version of the truth is correct? I think what was especially brilliant is that each storyteller blames him- or herself for the murder."

"Including the victim," Grace observed. "That's what made it so interesting. Each time you heard another version. The mystery, too, of who did it, and why each one takes the blame. But I don't really get how they all connect to the abandoned child."

"Well, the priest and the peasant both seemed shell-shocked – "

"Yes!" she jumped in. "Like they were stunned. But the priest didn't know exactly what happened any more than anyone else, you know? But he seemed the most judgmental."

"Until they found the abandoned baby. At first, it was just another sign of the horror of the world. But what was the peasant's reaction?"

She thought for a minute as we turned up the street to my house. "At first he wants to, like, get away. But then, then he says he'll take it in."

"And what about the weather?"

"The rain? Oh! The rain stops. It's like, there's hope now."

"The way I see it, no matter how bad things are, there's still an element of good in people, which means there's hope for people."

"It was just such a, I don't know, full movie. Layered. A lot there. I'd like to see it again, to get everything that's there, what I might have missed."

"It's definitely a movie you should see more than once," I said as I pulled up in front of my house and parked the car. "We're here."

Neither of us moved. Finally, Grace said, "Thanks for this movie, for wanting to see it with me." And she looked up at me, her hand on the seatbelt clasp. That intense feeling passing between us, those lips, those eyes, but I couldn't let it go beyond the hands we held.

"Go home, now, Grace," I said, looking at her directly.

She looked as if she were debating; would she say _why_ again? Her car was parked right in front of mine. She undid the clasp, opened the door. Reached a hand to touch mine, which was resting on the steering wheel. The barest touch, branded onto the back of my hand. "Okay," she said, and was gone. I watched while she got into her car, while she started it up, while she drove away. Only after I could no longer see the taillights did I undo my seatbelt and get out of my car.

I remember the times we parted as strongly as the times we had together, because they always came too soon, our time was always too short.


	22. Falling from

_Hello, Dear Readers. Time passes and Real Life intervenes. So long since we last saw this pair, I wondered, do we still care? Thanks to all those who answered with a resounding Yes! I obviously can't say it enough, but feedback is what inspires writers. Well, at least this writer. The juice,  the muse, the literary caffeine. On your words, there will be more of mine._

**Chapter 22: Falling from**

"So, Mr. Dimitri, is this what you were doing last night?"

The words, Alexa's words, sliced through the chaos of mumbling and complaining and shifting of desks, books, pens, pencils as I handed out the pop quiz. The words that indicated that a process was already underway, steps had been taken, but I didn't know that then.

"What?" I responded, incredulously, wondering, what could she know, what could she mean?

Alexa glanced at the girls sitting on either side of her with what could only be described as a knowing smile, but she said, demurely, "Nothing."

Involuntarily, my eyes shifted to Grace, and our eyes met briefly, so briefly, then darted away, but in her eyes I saw the same questions that must have beamed from mine: _What does she know? _Is_ there something to know?_ I finished passing out the quiz and sat at my desk, ostensibly going over papers for my afternoon class, listening to the hurried scribbling of pens. But my mind raced, I was unable to concentrate. I remembered Alexa, questioning Grace about the book, about the planned trip to the movie. I thought of Grace, sitting beside me at the theatre, the lights and shadows of _Rashomon_ flickering across her face, her hand tightening around my arm. _Tuesday's child is full of grace._ I willed myself not to look at her, and read mediocre essays.

While Alexa's words made me wary, I remained ignorant of the falling chain of dominoes they represented; it was just another Wednesday. There'd be no Gay-Straight Alliance meeting that night  – we had opted to work on various planning tasks and meet again the following week. I'd be having dinner with my sister and her family, seeing my niece in her spring play.

_Wednesday's child is full of woe_. Already the phone call had been made, already the rumors were spreading, but I was oblivious that day, still feeling a warmth when I thought of Grace the night before, a stirring as I thought of her in my kitchen, sexy in her tight sweater and leather skirt, the soft feel of her hand in mine. I avoided the teacher's lounge that day, wanting to be alone with my thoughts of Grace. Otherwise, I would have heard the rumors that were circulating there as well.

I knew I had ventured into dangerous territory, but  I still thought I was playing it safe. Avoiding the obvious, I know now. Keeping my mind shielded behind a stone wall of my own making, a wall that enabled me to hide and daydream; at lunch I walked, just walked through the streets around school; it was a cool, drizzly day, where everything looked impressionistic and blurry and hidden and like what it was not – bushes as crouching dogs, cars boulders, buildings looming suddenly. I felt safely enveloped and insulated from the world.

*****

_Thursday's child has far to go_. Thursday, the day named for Thor, God of Thunder. Thursday, the day that wall came crashing down, when reality broke through the illusions I had constructed around me.

No warning, I thought, but I had had a warning, heard that voice again, knowing and more certain than her voice had ever been in class, _So, Mr. Dimitri._

Thursday dawned clear and bright, deceptively beautiful. I woke early, with the sunrise. The dew evaporated in a mist from the grass, a warm day following a cool night. Tomorrow I'd see Grace at lunch, today she might hand me some new writing. Fragments of poems came to me, but I felt no rush to jot them down now, no urgency, for it seemed the words would linger, I could shape them as the day progressed, a sonnet of the days of the week, and I played with intermingling nursery rhymes and mythology _Sun, Moon, Tyr, Odin, Thor, Frigga, Saturn_ as I brewed my coffee, as I rode my bike, as I walked into the almost empty school building.

I enjoyed being at the school at this time of day, before students or many teachers arrived, the floors still gleaming from the previous night's janitorial polish, the halls and classrooms beckoning, full of promise. I settled into my classroom, placing the travel mug of coffee I had carefully packed on my desk, pulling lesson plans from my valise, settling into preparations for the day. It would be a good half hour before students started arriving.

I was just sipping my coffee, rereading papers I'd hand back to my regular junior English class, when I became aware of footsteps, rhythmic, official sounding, that paused by my door. It was Virginia Conway, the head of the school board.

"You're here early today, Mr. Dimitri," she said. Always so formal.

"Making hay, and all that," I said.

She didn't smile, just looked around the classroom suspiciously, oddly. "You here alone?"

"As far as I know... Are you looking for someone?"

"Should I be?"

I didn't know quite what to say, so I said nothing. She continued, "Mr. Dimitri, we'll need to see you in a meeting today, after third period. In Dan Brooker's office."

"But I have a class--"

"We've arranged for a substitute. We'll see you then." 

And she was gone.

I was mystified, wondering the reason for this meeting, and apprehensive; Virginia had been so curt. And a few hours later she actually came to bring me to the meeting, as if not trusting that I would show up on my own. With her was Barbara Temura, the roving substitute. I handed her my notes for the day and briefly discussed the lesson plan. Then Virginia said, "Wait for me in the hall, a moment, Mr. Dimitri." Barbara raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Both women waited as I left the room.

The hallway was a swirl of noise and movement, a contrast to the awkward quiet in my classroom. Students moving in all directions, opening lockers, sorting through books, backpacks, socializing. And then I saw her. Grace. Standing, halfway down the hall, and even at that distance, I felt our connection, that tie, and the noise of the hall faded, and I felt inexplicably drawn to her, took a step forward, felt uplifted as I saw her face break out into a smile, as she took a step toward me, and then it hit me. _She_ was the reason for this meeting. I wasn't sure why, or how, or what exactly, but the meeting I was about to go into, the meeting for which a substitute teacher had been hired, the meeting that would take me away from my classroom, had something to do with Grace. Alexa's words of the day before echoed loudly in my head suddenly, _Is this what you were doing last night_.

I heard Virginia's high-heeled steps coming toward the classroom door. The connection snapped. I shifted my eyes from Grace and turned. I turned my back on her, a move both painful and necessary. "Mr. Dimitri," Virginia said, stepping into the hallway.

"Yes," I answered, like a student responding to a teacher.

"Would you follow me?" she said, walking in front of me, through a doorway that led to Dan Brooker's office.

*****

I wonder, now, if I hadn't seen Grace in the hallway, if the topic of that meeting would have been a total surprise. I think I had become so involved with Grace internally, so consumed with her, really – I hesitate to use that loaded word _obsessed_ – that I had lost all sense of perspective. Just lived from day to day to see her, to be with her in the way we were, letting go, giving into feeling, though not acting on it. Or so I led myself to believe.

In that meeting, with two people who were my professional superiors, but with whom I had, as a popular teacher, always enjoyed a friendly rapport, everything in my life changed. Now it was them against me, I was the kid in trouble, caught, or not caught exactly, but certainly accused. Dan sat behind his desk, and Virginia pulled up a chair alongside it, leaving me to sit on the bench. The hot seat, I thought, and felt 17 again, when I was caught spray painting Gwendolyn Brooks's "We Real Cool" on the southern wall of the gymnasium. Guilty as charged then; punishment: cleaning up the "mess." The irony, of course, lost on the administration.

_Jazz June. We  
Die soon._

Somehow, things wouldn't be so simple now.

Dan and Virginia spoke at the same time. "Do you know why you're here?" she asked, and "We received a disturbing phone call last night from a parent," he said. They stopped, looked at each other, and Virginia nodded her head slightly toward Dan.

I didn't answer her, but waited for Dan to continue. "Apparently, her child witnessed you behaving inappropriately with a student, Grace Manning, Tuesday night."

I sat up straighter. "What?" I exclaimed, thinking, I had been so careful, so respectful, so chaste. "I would never—"

"The parent said her child thought there was to be a meeting at your house, but only Grace was there. You were seen embracing, then driving off in a car, alone together." I caught my breath, and Dan looked up. "Is this information incorrect?" he asked.

Carefully, I said, "Grace is my student. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. I had recommended to a few students that we see _Rashomon_, as we are studying points of view. The other students didn't show up, but Grace was there, and I saw nothing wrong in going with her. We certainly did not embrace."

Virginia broke in, "You went _alone_ to a movie with a female student?"

"Yes, but I thought it was an important film for her to see." Even to my ears, I sounded lame.

The interrogation continued. Alexa's name was never mentioned, but the list of accusations – favoring Grace, my attitude toward her affecting the rest of the students, were clearly the words of Alexa, channeled through the mouth of her protective mother.

And could I blame her, really? I thought I had been so objective and neutral and decent, but that was not how I was seen, apparently. I saw my relationship with Grace with a sudden, external clarity. I contemplated attraction and affection. To feel affection, love for someone, and then that added element that gets called _chemistry_, that _thing_ that affected my affection for Grace, that turned it from professorial fondness to something inappropriate. Alexa had seen this, finally honing her skills at observation. The irony.

The administrators stopped speaking, and I said, "Is this a formal inquiry, an investigation? Am I to go back to teaching today or tomorrow? You're telling me what one parent said; I'm telling you the accusations are groundless. What's next?"

Virginia and Dan exchanged glances. Then Dan spoke. "You know, August, these are serious accusations. And I realize it's coming from just one student, but it's enough. We have to investigate the matter further, and we'll start by meeting with Grace and her family. And no, you won't be teaching any more this week, till we have that meeting. We're aiming for tomorrow at 4."

I stood. "Can I get my things from my classroom?"

Dan stood as well, and he extended a hand. "Of course. I'm sure things will be fine, August. But you understand we do have to investigate."

And I did, and he should have, and I said as much.

Nonetheless, I was stunned. The gravity of the situation – I knew the potential consequences, but things had happened so gradually, those consequences didn't seem real. Had I done anything wrong? I knew this student had feelings for me, but in part she did because I invited her to have them. I think, looking back, I felt a hint of attraction  from that first day, in the confrontation we had about journal writing, which may be why I pushed her so hard, challenging herself, challenging her to behave in the most student-like way possible, so those odd stirrings I felt would never amount to anything.

But I couldn't help myself, feelings were there, whether I wanted them to be or not, and I felt a surge of anger toward Grace, for being a student, for causing me to feel, for being attractive to me, for being who she was, because who she was was a person I wanted to be with, was a person I wanted to touch, to embrace, and those desires were pointless and ultimately self-destructive.

I reached my classroom and walked in, pulling the door shut behind me, looking for a moment of calm in this space that had been a second home for over a decade. Except I wasn't alone. 

She was there.


	23. Tête à tête

_Hello, Dear Readers and wonderful Feedbackers! Chores are piling up, and I thought, I should write another chapter. What better way to hide from the responsibilities of Real Life, eh? Sound the violins and get out your handkerchiefs..._

**CHAPTER 23: Tête-à-tête**

Grace was leaning against one wall, her face lit with a happy smile of greeting. I turned and caught the door before it even clicked into place and pushed it open. Pointedly. I was, for once, not happy to see Grace, her stupid, innocent, too intimate smile; I wanted to hold onto the anger I had felt toward her, because that might keep me out of trouble. Remembering the strong but slight feel of her hand in mine would not.

She walked toward me, glancing at the open doorway. "I was hoping we could talk about my story," she said. "Because, see, now I can't figure out how to end it." 

Her damn story. Flash of the evening before, discussion of that ending that tied things together a little too well as I stood a little too close to her and she made an offer I had to refuse. I thought, her stories got me to this point in the first place, led me to push her as a writer, to want to know her, to class discussions to those lunchtime meetings, to conversations beyond the classroom. And the last thing I felt like doing at that moment was discuss her writing. "Not. Right. Now. Grace," I said woodenly, looking at her. She really had no idea. It was just a game to her, show interest in a teacher, cool, he likes her too. No sense of the bigger picture. I wished she would leave, this reminder of my failing. I wished she would stay and take my hand.

I looked away from her, looked at my desk, at the disarray left behind by Barbara Temura. Unable to concentrate, I began putting papers in my valise at random. It didn't really matter, did it? I wasn't going to be correcting student papers tonight. What was the point? I could feel her eyes on me as she said, hesitantly, "Oh. Okay." She didn't leave. Instead, she continued, perhaps an awareness dawning on her. "So, why weren't you... I mean, we had that sub... but then I saw you in the hall."

An image of Grace as I had seen her earlier, but now I saw her with a clarity of hindsight, a 17-year-old high-school junior, holding schoolbooks, nearly a quarter century my junior, not my girlfriend, my student, a student. Concentrating on keeping my voice steady, but with anger seeping in, I said, "Yeah, I was unable to attend class today due to being interrogated by Mr. Brooker." I looked up at her, met her eyes. She appeared shaken. Reality rears its ugly head.

"You're kidding," she said.

Yeah, I'm kidding. Ha, ha. Funny. I added, "Oh, and Mrs. Conway, head of the school board." I looked at her challengingly.

I didn't need to elaborate. She now understood. Ramifications. Consequences. Penalties. "We didn't do anything!" she protested.

I opened my mouth to speak, but then didn't. Her reaction of protest was evidence she understood. I had stated no reason for the interrogation – why the defensiveness? We didn't do anything? She offered herself to me in the privacy of my home. We saw a movie together. We held hands. We had a date. We discussed circumstances.

The same circle of thoughts must have gone through her head, because she immediately backed down and voiced sincere concern. "So... are you really in trouble?"

I let out a bitter bark of a laugh. _Trouble_. I got sent to the principal's office. The principal is your pal. Your principles are your ples. My ples were compromised. I'd have to stay after school. _Trouble_. Grace's naiveté was an annoyance to me now, it angered me, and I said, enunciating each word, "I could lose my job. And my license, and possibly never get hired to teach anywhere ever again." I could hear the underlying tone of accusation as I spoke, but made no effort to control it. Grace absorbed this, with a look of shock. Finally. I continued, softer, "Look, I think it's probably best for both of us if we just... just don't talk to each other outside of class anymore."

It certainly was better for Grace not to be with me. My attraction to her – had I taken advantage of her vulnerability? Encouraging her as I had – how good could that be for a girl who already felt so different, separate from her classmates, her family? A passage from her journal came to me.

_Sometimes I feel so intensely distant from everyone around me, probably because I am, objectively speaking. I know I am smarter, usually, but they have a knowledge, an ease, an ability to pass back and forth through doors, doors for which I need a key and can't even find the lock let alone the key._

But I couldn't be that key, shouldn't want to be, and for the second time that day, I turned my back on her, a gesture of defiance that was accompanied by a profound sense of loss.

Behind me, she protested, "No! I just – "

I stopped and faced her and said, coldly, "Hey. I'm sorry." And then I left my classroom, left Grace standing behind me, alone.

Outside, the midday sun beamed on my bike, warming the seat, much too beautiful a day, incongruous with how I felt inside. It should have been hailing, snowing, thunderstorm, tornado. Raging nonsensical chaos of weather. Not golden May sunshine and clean fresh air, soft, caressing breezes. So why did my eyes sting as I pedaled home, why were my cheeks wet when I turned into my driveway?

*****

Trust Grace not to listen to me. And maybe I was hoping she wouldn't.

Virginia had left a message on my machine. A meeting the next day, with Grace and her parents. Four o'clock. I thought with a sinking feeling of the Chekhov I had given Grace, of that incriminating inscription. For all I knew, Grace had never read it, and had left the book lying around the house as I had encouraged her to leave her stories lying around, "Love August" there for all the world to see, to report.

And it hit me then. Regardless of the outcome of the meeting tomorrow, my time teaching at Sinclair was over. Perhaps it would appear as an admission of guilt, perhaps something else. But I had lost sight of myself. Of what was important. I told myself that my feelings for Grace weren't real, that they had been a manifestation of restlessness I had been feeling, that she had been a convenient focal point for my desire for change. That I had let a relationship with a student get to this point was indicative to me that I should take time off from teaching.

I looked around my living room. I had lived here for nearly five years now, had settled in. I liked this house, so much more convenient to my job than the apartment I had shared with Chris downtown. But I couldn't imagine staying on here and not teaching.

I looked through my albums, thinking of the comforting, sweet notes of Linda's voice, of old Melanie. But somehow, silence seemed more appropriate for my mood now. I was tempted to open a new bottle of wine, but the day was young, still, and the image of drowning my sorrows in alcohol too pathetic. I considered grading the pop quizzes from the other day, but if I wasn't going to be there to hand them back, I wouldn't hand them back.

The phone rang. I debated letting it ring, but then picked up. It was Jerry. Must be calling from his cell between classes; the school day wasn't over yet. With no preamble, he asked, "Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"Rumors are flying."

"'_Stop the rumor, and allay those tongues/That durst disperse it...'_" I fell into our habit of quoting Shakespeare. An ongoing game between us: points for identifying the play, the character, the act, the scene. Bonus points if you could quote the next line.

But Jerry wasn't playing today. He continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Essence seems to be you've been having an ongoing affair with Grace Manning. Sleeping with the enemy, as it were," he attempted to joke, his voice a mixture of hope that I would dismiss the charges and incredulity at what I might have done.

"I'm not having an affair with Grace," I said.

"But something's going on. You're home in the middle of the day, August. What happened, exactly?" Was it concern I heard, or simple curiosity?

"I'm not having an affair with Grace," I repeated. "Or any student. That's all."

"Because," Jerry paused, seeming to look for words. "Because, I don't know how to say this without sounding sentimental, but I always sort of thought of you as a model teacher. One of the good guys. No Achilles heel. The one who always does the right thing. I believed in you."

"But do you _believe_ me, now?" I asked.

"I want to... It's just, there's always a core of truth to rumors."

"To be honest, Jerry," I said. "I'm not sure what the truth is any more myself." _Because her truth kills mee_, as Donne once said. Not much of a defense. And not reassuring enough for Jerry.

After a pause he said, slowly, "_Henry VIII_, isn't it? First scene in Act 3. One of the two nameless gentlemen. And the second responds, '_But that slander, sir,/Is found a truth now.'_ Interesting choice of quotes, August."

"Eight points," I said. "It's actually Act 2."

"That's what I meant to say. So what happens now?"

"There's a meeting tomorrow. With the family. I'm sorry, Jerry... thanks for calling."

"Of course. Well, good luck, then." He hung up, 

I paced, feeling disconnected, empty. Why hadn't I just outright refuted everything, more emphatically, as Jerry obviously wanted me to? He was a ready ally, just needed more definitive reassurances. That honesty thing. Certainly couldn't tell the whole truth, but couldn't outright deny and lie, either.

I thought of calling Chris, April, but I didn't feel like talking to anyone. I went to the garage and pulled out my bike again and rode, rode far out and biked along the lake for hours, till a chill in the air hinted at the sinking sun. I reached home just after the sun set, sweating, breathless, hungry. I showered quickly, dressed, and searched the fridge for dinner food. Saw a wedge of Chabichou and felt a blade slice through my insides. I closed the door, appetite gone, when I heard knocking.

I knew it was Grace, as soon as I heard the first knock on the back door, before I even heard her call out my name. My professional name. "Mr. Dimitri!" Another knock. "Could you please let me in?" I froze. Could she see me? Did she know I heard her? I turned, almost against my will, and walked toward the door. "Mr. Dimitri, it's important. I won't stay long, I just—" she saw me standing there, motionless, arms at my sides. "Could you please just open the door?" she said quietly. And I did. I let her in. Against common sense, better judgment, but not against my heart.

She stopped by me at the door as she entered, and said, "I rewrote the end of the story," then came all the way into the kitchen, without looking back. I glanced around outside, looking for a spying car, a lurking person, but saw nothing, no one. I shut the door, and there we were once again, together in my kitchen. Grace handed me her story. I sat and watched as she went to a cupboard, got a glass, and poured herself some juice from the fridge.

She settled into a chair opposite me, holding her drink, and looked at me expectantly. "All right," I said, then began to read.


	24. Coeur a Coeur

_Ah, Dear Readers, the moment we've all been waiting for. Do you know, this is where I thought I'd start _Backstory_, but somehow, Mr. Dimitri wanted to go further back in time and tell all. Poor, intellectual Mr. Dimitri, accused of being a dweeb because he can quote and identify Shakespeare. That should be the least of his worries, eh? He _is_ an English teacher, after all. _To thine own self be true,_ easier said than done. Read, empathize, and consider that someone once said, "_I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad."_ (Extra points if you know who, where, and when.)_

**CHAPTER 24: Coeur-a-Coeur**

_With a start, Charlotte awoke, disoriented. The room she was in was dark; no light seeped in through window edges, or doors. Velvety, complete darkness. She sat up, stared around her. She could just make out black shapes against blacker shapes, and she remembered where she was. Sondra's room. Sondra, who declared she could never sleep if even the barest crack of light was visible, who insisted on room-darkening shades, a brocade curtain over her door, and a cloth mask shielding her eyes._

_Slowly, images floated back into Charlotte's mind. A fight with her parents, no, between her parents, the raised voices behind closed doors as she slipped out of the house the day before. Always about money, and about her mother working. Then fragments of what must have been a dream, where the fight had led to a fissure – her father moving out, her mother demanding a divorce. Summer turned to fall, high school began, and her two best friends became cheerleaders, jumping high and shaking pompoms._

_And then she felt a cold trickle of doubt. Had the divorce, the pompoms, _had_ they been a dream? She felt a sudden, urgent need to see her parents, now, regardless of the time. She groped around in the dark for the flashlight she always brought to Sondra's, found her bag, and slipped out of the room._

_Fortunately, it was morning. Early, not yet 7, but morning. She walked the three blocks home quickly, her head and heart pounding. She entered through the back door and heard the sounds of cooking. And there, to her relief, was her father, preparing Sunday breakfast. And her mother – which brought her up short. Her mother was never up this early._

_"Are you guys getting divorced?" Charlotte said abruptly, causing both parents to turn, surprised. Her father strode across the room to the table where her mother was sitting and clasped her hand. They looked into each other's eyes and smiled, then looked at Charlotte._

_"Divorced?" her mother said. "Why would we do that?"_

_"You don't divorce someone you're madly in love with," her father added. "Especially not when she's also your business partner."_

_"What?" Charlotte sat at the table with her parents. As they explained their new plans, where Mom would join Dad in the restaurant she knew so well, their words quietly washed away the painful images of Charlotte's dream, replacing them with calm, still challenging, but loving images of reality. No divorce, no cheerleading, just her family, as she had known them, with all their petals and thorns, but all there, whole in the daylight, a welcome contrast to the pain her fears had manifested as she slept._

_Her father went back to the stove. "Now how about some pancakes?" he asked._

_"I've been dreaming about these," Charlotte said, and held out her plate._

*****

I finished reading Grace's latest revision. Revisionism, rather. Annoyed that she would want me to read this, this wishful thinking of an ending that destroyed the subtlety of the story she had already written. She sat opposite me, a glass in her hands, a smile ready at her lips, looking at me expectantly. I straightened the pages together and said with no effort to keep disgust from my voice, "This isn't an ending."

"What?" she said, taken aback by the unexpected harshness in my voice. "Yes it is."

"What, it was all a dream? That's your ending?"

"Yeah, because, well, it makes you question, you know, reality," she attempted to explain.

"Well, at least be specific." I let my anger erupt, at her new ending, at her, at myself, at this whole situation; I poured it out against this little story. "Suddenly realizing that the most memorable moment of your life was, was only an illusion, that you made it all up, what does that _feel_ like, _specifically_?" I stood. "But this is just, it's like you're backing away, disowning it; it's as though you just wrote anything to be rid of it; like, like none of it mattered. Just finishing something is not an ending."

I walked away from her. It was insulting, I thought, as if everything I had taught her that year about reading and writing had evaporated, and she was wasting my time with wishful thinking stories. But a thought niggled at the back of my mind. Was I really talking about Grace?

"Okay." Grace pushed her story into her backpack.

I continued, "Read your Chekhov, read those short stories I gave you." The ones you've never acknowledged receiving, I thought silently. I gave them to her for a reason, a classic volume, beautiful words, inspiring literature. "You'll see what I'm talking about." And then my anger dissipated, I deflated. I turned to face her again and asked, "Are you hungry? You want something to eat?"

But now she responded to my words. "Oh, you know, if you're angry at me just say it. Don't take it out on my story!" She walked to the fridge, always her refuge. Opened the door, peered inside, hiding, as she said, "At least I'm trying. I don't see you sending your poetry out to any magazines."

Bull's-eye. "I don't write poetry anymore," I muttered.

"My point exactly," Grace said, and looked at me appraisingly, then back inside the fridge.

It was a point I preferred to ignore. Because it was true. Writing had come so easily to me once, that when it became work, when it didn't flow organically and naturally, I gave it up. _Like none of it mattered._ I did not practice what I preached. I taught, but I didn't accept the challenge writing had become. I recognize that now, but would not admit it then. I changed the subject; food was easy, neutral. I said, "There's some of that cheese you like, if you want it."

Melodramatically, she pushed the door shut and jumped back, exclaiming, "I probably shouldn't even be opening your refrigerator since it's obviously this punishable crime!"

"Just _take_ the cheese," I said, annoyance becoming a half laugh at the absurdity of our situation. My job was on the line, Grace had ventured into romantic territory with me, risking her emotional self, and here we were, on the eve of a day where nothing could be the same, arguing about French cheese with a silly name. I was rewarded with a small smile from Grace.

I sighed, and went for honesty. "I am somewhat angry at you." Deservedly or not. I walked toward her, toward the fridge. "I'm even angrier at myself." Because I should have known better. Or I did, but didn't act on what I knew. But, if the point of her visit was to discuss her story, regardless of what was happening between us, this new ending was abysmal. Too _Wizard of Oz_. I stopped in front of her and said, "That doesn't change the fact that your ending doesn't work." I could see, now, in her eyes, that she knew this too. I opened the refrigerator door, took out the Chabichou and carried it to the far counter.

Behind me, Grace said quietly, compassionately, "Are they going to take away your license?"

My heart constricted at the concern in her voice. I shrugged, despairingly. I pulled out a knife and cut a slice of cheese for Grace. Something to do. Offer her food, this thing we had shared, once.

"Maybe if you talked to Alexa and just explained to her what she saw." So it was common knowledge that Alexa was the student making the accusation. Virginia and Dan had been so careful to speak neutrally of "the student" and "the student's parent." No names, not even a gender-identifying pronoun. But I had suspected as much. Not that it mattered.

"I can't talk to Alexa." I said. "This has gone way past Alexa."

"But we have to tell people!"

"Tell them what?"

"You know, the truth!" Spoken defiantly, assertively.

The truth. What I had always demanded from Grace in her writing, what was missing from the new ending to her story. What had to be missing from the next day's meeting, for her sake as well as for mine. I turned, looked at her directly, and said, "Uh huh. And what's that?"

She returned my gaze and grimaced, her shoulders slumping in defeat as she considered the answer to this question. The truth of sexual tension between a mentor and his student, of affection, attraction, of unfulfilled desire, of a closeness that was all too real. I smiled at her ruefully and held out the slice of cheese. She grabbed it swiftly and turned, saying, "I hate them." I looked at her quizzically. "I do! I mean, what gives them the right?" She put the cheese down on the opposite counter and faced me again, her eyes betraying pain, fury, sadness. But not loneliness, not now.

Sardonically, I said, "Well, state law, for one thing."

She exclaimed, with a touch or urgency, "No, I'm serious! I hate it. I mean, that they, they think they can just control our lives like that!" She actually clenched her fists in frustration. "It's just so unfair!"

"Grace," I started to say, softly, trying to be the teacher. "It isn't that unfair. I'm expected —"

"No," Grace interrupted. "It's unfair to _me_." I stopped talking to listen, really listen to what she had to say. "Because everyone in that entire school thinks we did all this stuff, and we never even got to even do it because you never even _let_ me!"

I had to smile. Oh, the irony. _Irony is the form of paradox._ Here I was being so noble, yet accused, practically, of statutory rape, and my alleged victim was chastising me for not doing the act.

"Don't laugh at me!" Grace insisted.

I looked at her, my beautiful, fiery Grace, Grace who had inspired me this year, who had filled my waking dreams of the past seven months, and I laughed, gently, as I said, "I can't help it." I was aware, then, of her proximity; somehow, during this exchange, we had moved toward one another and were now less than a foot apart.

A pair of tears that had been threatening to spill broke free and rolled down her cheek, reminding me of that time I'd failed at setting things straight in my car. She gave a half laugh too, and met my gaze. And then said words I forgot I'd been hoping to hear. "I read what you wrote," she said, at long last. "In that book you gave me." Then pouring an intensity of feeling that went to my core, she whispered two words, "Thank you."

Finally, acknowledgment. I couldn't speak, could only look at her, at those determined eyes, at those full lips, and those smooth cheeks. Those soft lips. Mesmerized. Then I felt her hand upon my shoulder, and then, suddenly, she leaned up and kissed me. It was a kiss... the sweetest, most passionate, most gentle, most loving kiss. Heartfelt. My heart felt, and I leaned forward toward her, just lips, softly searching lips, returning her kiss. I wanted to put my arms around her, I wanted to run my hands through her hair, I wanted to stroke her face, I wanted to kiss her eyes. But I kept my hands by my side. And she pulled away, like a swimmer suddenly needing air. Her hand rested against my shoulder, an intimate gesture that made me tremble. And I looked at her, I met her eyes, worried I had misread her somehow, that she might now feel violated. But her eyes were happy, secure, triumphant almost. I had never seen her more beautiful, glowing, another one of those hyperbolic words, except she really did, she shone.

She dropped her eyes then and said, "Oh my God," echoing my thoughts. I shifted my eyes away for the briefest blink, and back again to a locked gaze. A signal, inadvertent, my better judgment coming through in a flicker. I had no voice. A sound came from my throat, but it didn't form into words. I smiled at her, shyly, all masks gone. She knew me. She nodded as if in agreement and looked to the side and said, "I'm going home now." I couldn't move, and I couldn't turn and watch her leave me.

Because, _oh my God_, we could not spend the night together, because, _you know, the truth_, her kiss had left me aroused, kisses between adults lead to further passions that were not, now, appropriate, because_ we can't be friends_, because this kiss in my kitchen would change both our lives forever, because it now was _the most memorable moment_, and I couldn't breath because _specifically_ the moment was bigger than I could hold and I wasn't sure how or why or what could happen next or now, because this was our ending, I knew then, and realized she knew it as well. 

I heard the door close. Grace was gone. I saw her piece of cheese, uneaten, on the counter, and picked it up. I needed air, opened the door to an empty street, inhaled the cool night, gulped it in until I was shivering. I shut the door, turning back to my kitchen, and saw the room with the eyes of someone leaving. Already I began mentally packing items away, assigning them to storage, my sister's, my parents', Good Will. I discarded the cheese in my hand, along with the vestiges of my uneaten supper.

The events of the day overwhelmed me, and I was ready to sleep. The stairs were too much, and I lay on my couch, legs suddenly aching from my earlier long bike ride. Tomorrow's meeting would be a formality. Grace would be there, I'd see her once more, surrounded by judgments, and I was grateful that she had come to me this evening, for this experience of simultaneous awakening and closure, for her courage, her tenacity, and yes, her grace.


	25. Dis Closure

_Hello, Dear Readers. Well, it certainly has been a while. Life happens. But the call of Dimitri came again, asking to be heard, words on screen, so here we are again. Feedback, of course, is necessary for more, if more is necessary._

_"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," – that is all  
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know._

**Chapter 25: Dis Closure**

There are books that I've been tempted to stop reading before they are finished, because things are happy and good in the middle, because the deaths haven't happened yet, the betrayals, the infidelities. Stop now, don't turn the page, and we shall all live happily ever after.

But stories in life have a next day, a day after, and we continue. Chapters finish, but the whole story never ends, really. Perfect endings can only be fiction.

Is there actually such a thing as closure? Or is that only wishful thinking? Hoping the desire for such a thing will make it so, make closure real. Feel that it's over, it's okay, we can move on. Maybe imagined closure. We move on because we have to; I moved on because I had to. I moved because I couldn't stay.

I didn't sleep much after Grace left me. I read my volume of Chekhov stories, hoping to distract myself. But they only reminded me of her, and sometime between night and dawn I allowed myself to ponder the kiss, consider the kiss, immortalize the kiss. Sweetness. And desire, a surge of desire and strong feelings I hadn't experienced in a very long time.

Which made me think this thing I felt was either beyond Grace, that she was merely there as a catalyst for change, for an end to my personal stagnation. Or. Or else it was all about Grace, a building of something, of a growing affection for her, for Grace in particular. Love. But how could love be, here, now? However I looked at it, any "stuff" beyond that gentle kiss would, ultimately, be selfish.

I analyzed and overanalyzed Grace's eyes, her gestures, her words just after our lips had met. "Lips meeting." A cliché, but they did meet, we did meet, and our kiss was a culmination of accumulating changes in my life. And hers, too, I think.

It was... Just a Kiss. Just. A. Kiss. That stirred me, that woke me up. She was a charm to my somnambulant spirit. Transforming? But which way? Frog to prince, teacher to man, paragon to pariah. Passive to active.

I don't like to think about that next day, that day after, a day of utter personal humiliation. Certainly brought it upon myself, but who likes to see their weaknesses displayed in public, scrutinized, discussed?

The whole inquiry was surreal. I felt as if this could not be happening to me, of all people – I was the one who would hear about someone, someone like me, second-or third-hand. I'd shake my head, say I never noticed anything, continue with my teaching. But here I was.

I arrived early, as instructed, and endured what felt like hours but was barely five minutes of preliminary questions. How often had I seen "Miss Manning" outside of school? What was the name of the movie we saw? Was there any exchange of gifts or written communications?

Dully, I answered. Twice. _Rashomon_.... No. What should be the truth?

And then Grace and her family arrived. I kept my face toward the board as I heard them enter, clear throats, sit down. I couldn't turn around.

Could not meet her eyes. I felt that if I did it would be a screaming announcement to the room: There Is Something Between Them. Because, strange as it may seem, gross, even, there _was_ something between us, a connection, a chemistry, something that was not sordid but strong, not gross but beautiful, not imagined but there. Even if the something would stay where it was, locked separately in each of us; if our eyes met, now, in this room, surrounded by those opposed to any such thing – parents, administrators, myself even, they would all see it. As I'm sure Alexa saw it in the classroom, more than once, and in whatever it was she witnessed the night of the movie. Some things cannot be hidden.

Smothered the thought of lips touching lips, the weight of a hand on a shoulder.... Thought of irrelevant things: elephants, gotta buy shampoo, did I leave a window open. Because. What did I expect from Grace? That she would rush to my side, defending her love? How very, very sophomoric. Adolescent. That's how she made me feel. Not sophomoric, but young. Stupidly young, with improbable fantasies, unrealistic thoughts because we were who we were. Dreams.

I had to let her go. She was young, she was seventeen, she was a high-school _girl_, not yet a woman, and I was a man and then some (whatever people might say about my level of maturity). Any further physical interaction now could only be sordid. I wouldn't do that to Grace, no matter how certain she believed herself to be otherwise. Because she would be wrong, I would be wrong. Because kissing her made me want her, to feel her all around me. So I could not think about kissing Grace during the interrogation.

The inquiry resumed, same questions, this time with an audience. Twice. _Rashomon_.... Virginia Conway referred to the night of the movie as a "so-called date." I flatly denied this categorization. I had to. But even as I said, "I accompanied her to a film... for educational purposes," I could hear how lame that sounded.

And then, the choice of movie analyzed. I've seen _Rashomon_ maybe a dozen times, read the short story that inspired it, studied it and explicated it for a film class, then watched it again for the sheer pleasure of seeing a perfect film by one of the world's greatest directors. But I never thought of describing the movie as Virginia did then, when she asked, "This particular film does contain material of an explicitly sexual nature, does it not?"

Technically, I realized, it does. It is, after all, about a coital tryst, a rape or consensual, depending on the point of view. It's also about a murder – or a suicide. Depending on the point of view. And it's about humanity and perspective and beauty and truth. _Rashomon_ is a violent movie, a murder mystery, a social commentary, a period piece. But eliminating all the other details and focusing on sexual explicitness, as if that were the point, to somehow buddy up with Grace, with a student, over a sex movie, twisted the context out of everything.

But I was floundering in there, with my tone of incredulity, with my inarticulate responses. I sounded guilty, though of what I wasn't sure. I sounded guilty because I felt guilty, because when Virginia addressed Grace directly, and when Grace spoke, finally, I felt a tingle of desire at the sound of her voice.

Grace's stepfather had just taken her father out of the room, to "get some air." I really think he would have taken a swing at me, the stereotype of a father defending his daughter's virtue. Shouldn't blame him for that. When the door shut behind them, Virginia said to the room, "I have to ask each of you if there's anything, anything else that we need to be aware of. Because if there is, this is the time. Grace, this includes you."

Behind me I heard Grace in defiant mode, and I remembered the look Grace had given me in the classroom after the incident with Chris. "You don't want to hear what I have say," she said bitingly. An enigmatic statement, but still, her voice stirred me, and I knew I absolutely could not look at her then, because my eyes would search her face, her posture, for meaning.

Virginia raised her eyebrows slightly at this. _What did she know_? I wondered. _What did Alexa tell her_? Her next questions seemed to indicate an agenda: "Well, are there any other incidents? Inappropriate gifts, for instance? Written communications of a questionable nature?" Why would she ask that? The inscription burned in my brain. _To the girl with the loneliest eyes... Love always, August_. What was I thinking when I wrote that? How could it be seen as anything but damning, and "inappropriate" and "of a questionable nature"? Had Grace's mother seen the book, seen the inscription? Again, I could not turn, but I sensed a pause behind me, an intake of breath – Grace's? Her mother's? Virginia looked past me expectantly. She must have seen something, for she added, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Sammler? Was there anything else at all of that nature that comes to mind?"

The pause was long, the silence loud, before Grace's mother spoke: "No. Nothing." Perhaps it was my imagination, but I could almost sense Grace's held breath slowly released.

A shorter pause, and then Virginia started to speak again, but Mrs. Sammler interrupted her. "Wait. There is one more thing." I froze. Grace's mother continued, "I just... this teacher changed my daughter's life by believing in her, in a way that's really hard to describe, and rare, and really valuable. And that needs to be said too. That's all."

That was everything. I turned then, and looked at Grace's mother, and admired this woman, for saying that, for supporting Grace against something that must not be easy, for recognizing the good I hoped I had offered her daughter. Because Grace had blossomed this year, had grown immeasurably, as a person and as a writer, since last September.

I shifted back around, keeping a poker face, couldn't react, but inside I felt almost like crying, that someone who mattered, and Grace's mother did matter, saw some good in me.

It didn't alter Virginia's opinion, however. After an inaudible exchange of words with Brooker, Virginia spoke again, addressing me directly. "Mr. Dimitri, I think under the circumstances we have no choice but to suspend you –with pay – for the remainder of the semester. At which point the school board will have a decision to make."

Was this unexpected? Yes, and no. My grandfather was sick for many years, a series of strokes taking him closer and closer to a second infancy and to death, yet when he actually died, I felt shocked. How could I expect the school to do anything else? Yet I realized, as Virginia's words sank in, that I _had_ been expecting something else, some reprieve. When it didn't come, I remained seated, looking at my hands. I heard the people behind me, around me, get up, leave the room, heard Grace's mother saying, in the hall, "He's out!" with a note of relief and triumph in her voice.

The feeling I had had the night before, as I heard the back door click shut when Grace left me, returned. I would not be staying until the end of the semester, awaiting a decision; I would not be coming back. A wake-up call, perhaps? I needed to go away, somewhere, to do something very different, before I would teach again, if I could teach again.


End file.
